-7^^  /r 


"2^- 


DOMUEY    AND    SON. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON 


BY 

CHARLES    DICKENS 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS, 


NEW   YORK 

JOHN  W.    LOVELL    COMPANY 

150  Worth  Street,  corner  Mission  Place 


:v 


y.. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

Chapter  I.     Dombey  &  Son,          .....                .        .  O 

Chapter  II.     In  which  timely  provision  is  made  for  an  emergency  that 

will  sometimes  arise  in  the  best  regulated  families,  .  .  .  .  ip 
Chapter  III.     In  which  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a  man  and  father,  is  seen  at 

the  head  of  the  home  department, 3c 

Chapter  IV.     In  which  some  more  first  appearances  are  made  on  the 

stage  of  these  adventures, 4* 

Chapter  V.     Paul's  progress  and  christening, 5% 

Chapter  VI.     Paul's  second  deprivation,        ......  71 

Chapter  VII.     A  bird's-eye  glimpse  of  Tox's  dwelling-place  ;    also  of 

the  state  of  Miss  Tox's  affections,        ••••...  »3 

Chapter  VIII,     Paul's  further  progress,  growth  and  character,     .        .  q8 

Chapter  IX.     In  which  the  Wooden  Midshipman  gets  into  trouble,     •  119 

Chapter  X.     Containing  the  sequel  of  the  Midshipman's  disaster,        .  123 

Chapter  XI.     Paul's  introduction  to  a  new  scene,          ....  145 

Chapter  XII.     Paul's  education, '  159 

Chapter  XIII.  Shipping  intelligence  and  office  business,  .  .  .  r  ^78 
Chapter  XIV.     Paul  grows  more  and  more  old-fashioned,  and  goe? 

home  for  the  holidays,         ,         .         o -  100 

Chapter  XV.     Amazing  artfulness  of  Captain  Cuttle,  and  a  new  pur- 

suit  for  Walter  Gay, 214. 

Chapter  KVl.  What  the  waves  were  always  saying,  ....  230 
Chapter  XVII.  Captain  Cuttle  does  a  little  business  for  the  young- 
people,         235 

Chapter  XVIII.     Father  and  daughter, =  247 

Chapter  XIX.     Walter  goes  away, 266 

Chapter  XX.     Mr.  Dombey  goes  upon  a  journey,          ....  279 

Chapter  XXI.     New  faces, 293 

Chapter  XXII.     A  trifle  of  management  by  Mr.  Carker,  the  manager,  305 

Chapter  XXIII.     Florence  solitary,  and  the  Midshipman  mysteriou;^-  .  324 

Chapter  XXIV.     The  study  of  a  lo\ang  heart, 347 

Chapter  XXV.     Strange  view  of  Uncle  Sol, 358 

Chapter  XXVI,    Shadows  of  the  past  and  future,        .                .        .  368 

Chapter  XXVI!.     Deeper  shadows, 384 

Chapter  XXVIII.    Alterations, 401 


M194474 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGEe 

Chapter  XXIX.     The  opening  of  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Chick,     .        ,        ,411 

Chapter  XXX.     The  interval  before  marriage, 423 

Chapter  XXXI.     The  wedding, 439 

Chapter  XXXII.     The  Wooden  Midshipman  goes  to  pieces,        .        .  455 

vChapter  XXXIII.     Contrasts, 473 

Chapter  XXXIV.     Another  mother  and  daughter,        ....  486 

Chapter  XXXV.    The  happy  pair, ,        .  498 

Chapter  XXXVI,     House-warming, 510 

Chapter  XXXVII.     More  warmings  than  one, 522 

Chapter  XXXVIII.     Miss  Tox  improves  an  old  acquaintance,      .         .  533 

Chapter  XXXIX.     Further  adventures  of  Captain  Cuttle,  mariner,      ,  542 

Chapter  XL,     Domestic  relations, 560 

Chapter  XLI,     New  voices  in  the  waves, 576 

Chapter  XLII,     Confidential  and  accidental, 586 

Chapter  XLIII.    The  watches  of  the  night, 602 

Chapter  XLIV.    A  separation,     .        , 611 

Chapter  XLV.     The  trusty  agent, 621 

Chapter  XLVI.     Recognizant  and  reflective,        .        .        .        ,         .  630 

Chapter  XLVII.     The  thunderbolt, ,        .  643 

Chapter  XLVIII.    The  flight  of  Florence, 663 

Chapter  XLIX.     The  Midshipman  makes  a  discovery,          .        .        .  675 

Chapter  L.     Mr.  Toots's  complaint, 693 

Chapter  LI,     Mr.  Dombey  and  the  world, 710 

Chapter  LII.     Secret  intelligence,           . 718 

Chapter  LIII.     More  intelligence, 734 

Chapter  LIV.     The  fugitives, 750 

Chapter  LV.     Rob  the  Grinder  loses  his  place, 761 

Chapter  LVI.     Several  people  delighted,  and  the  Game-Chicken  dis- 
gusted,            773 

Chapter  LVII.     Another  weddmg,        .         ,        .        ...        .        .  797 

Chapter  LVIII.     After  a  lapse, 805 

Chapter  LIX.     Retribution, 820 

Chapter  LX,     Chiefly  matrimonial, 839 

Chapter  LXI.     Relenting, 852 

Chapter  LXII.     Final, ,        ,  865 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

DOMBEY     AND    SON. 

Dombey  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  darkened  room  in  the 
great  arm-chair  by  the  bedside,  and  Son  lay  tucked  up  warm 
in  a  little  basket  bedstead,  carefully  disposed  on  a  low  settee 
immediately  in  front  of  the  fire  and  close  to  it,  as  if  his  con- 
stitution were  analogous  to  that  of  a  muffin,  and  it  was  essen- 
tial to  toast  him  brown  while  he  was  very  new. 

Dombey  was  about  eight-and-forty  years  of  age,  Son  about 
eight-and-forty  minutes.  Dombey  was  rather  bald,  rather 
red,  and  though  a  handsome  well-made  man,  too  stern  and 
pompous  in  appearance,  to  be  prepossessing.  Son  was  very 
bald,  and  very  red,  and  though  (of  course)  an  undeniably 
fine  infant,  somewhat  crushed  and  spotty  in  his  general 
effect,  as  yet.  On  the  brow  of  Dombey,  Time  and  his  brother 
Care  had  set  some  marks,  as  on  a  tree  that  was  to  come 
down  in  good  time — remorseless  twins  they  are  for  striding 
through  their  human  forests,  notching  as  they  go — while  the 
countenance  of  Son  was  crossed  and  recrossed  with  a  thou- 
sand little  creases,  which  the  same  deceitful  Time  would  take 
delight  in  smoothing  out  and  wearing  away  with  the  flat 
part  of  his  scythe,  as  a  preparation  of  the  surface  for  his 
deeper  operations. 

Dombey,  exulting  in  the  long-looked-for  event,  jingled  and 
jingled  the  heavy  gold  watch-chain  that  depended  from  be- 
low his  trim  blue  coat,  whereof  the  buttons  sparkled  phos- 
phorescently  in  the  feeble  rays  of  the  distant  fire.  Son,  with 
his  little  fists  curled  up  and  clenched,  seemed,  in  his  feeble 
way,  to  be  squaring  at  existence  for  having  come  upon  him 
so  unexpectedly. 

"  The  house    will   once  again,    Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr. 


10  DCMBEY   AND   SON. 

Dombey,  "  be  not  only  in  name  but  in  fact  Dombey  and  Son; 
Dom-bey  and  Son  !  " 

The  words  had  such  a  softening  influence,  that  he  append- 
ed a  term  of  endearment  to  Mrs.  Dombey' s  name  (though 
not  without  some  hesitation,  as  being  a  man  but  little  used 
to  that  form  of  address)  :  and  said,  "  Mrs.  Dombey,  my — 
my  dear." 

A  transient  flush  of  faint  surprise  overspread  the  sick  lady's 
face  as  she  raised  her  eyes  toward  him. 

"  He  will  be  christened  Paul,  my — Mrs.  Dombey — of 
course." 

She  feebly  echoed,  "  Of  course,"  or  rather  expressed  it  by 
the  motion  of  her  lips,  and  closed  her  eyes  again. 

"  His  father's  name,  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  his  grandfather's  ! 
I  wish  his  grandfather  were  alive  this  day  !  "  And  again  he 
said  "  Dom-bey  and  Son,"  in  exactly  the  same  tone  as 
before. 

Those  three  words  conveyed  the  one  idea  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  life.  The  earth  was  made  for  Dombey  and  Son  to 
trade  in,  and  the  sun  and  moon  were  made  to  give  them 
light.  Rivers  and  seas  were  formed  to  float  their  ships  ; 
rainbows  gave  them  promise  of  fair  weather  ;  winds  blew 
for  or  against  their  enterprises  ;  stars  and  planets  circled  in 
their  orbits,  to  preserve  inviolate  a  system  of  which  they 
were  the  center.  Common  abbreviations  took  new  meanings 
in  his  eyes,  and  had  sole  reference  to  them  :  A.  D.  had  no 
concern  with  anno  Domini,  but  stood  for  anno  Dombei — • 
and  Son. 

He  had  risen,  as  his  father  had  before  him,  in  the  course 
of  life  and  death,  from  Son  to  Dombey,  and  for  nearly 
twenty  years  had  been  the  sole  representative  of  the  firm. 
Of  those  years  he  had  been  married,  ten — married,  as  some 
said,  to  a  lady  with  no  heart  to  give  him  ;  whose  happiness 
was  in  the  past,  and  who  was  content  to  bind  her  broken 
spirit  to  the  dutiful  and  meek  endurance  of  the  present. 
Such  idle  talk  was  little  likely  to  reach  the  ears  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, whom  it  nearly  concerned  ;  and  probably  no  one  in 
the  world  would  have  received  it  with  such  utter  incredulity 
as  he,  if  it  had  reached  him.  Dombey  and  Son  had  often 
dealt  in  hides,  but  never  in  hearts.  They  left  that  fancy 
ware  to  boys  and  girls,  and  boarding-schools  and  books. 
Mr.  Dombey  would  have  reasoned  :  That  a  matrimonial 
alliance  with  himself  must^  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  grati- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  ii 

fying  and  honorable  to  any  woman  of  common  sense.  That 
the  hope  of  giving  birth  to  a  new  partner  in  such  a  house, 
could  not  fail  to  awaken  a  glorious  and  stirring  ambition  in 
the  breast  of  the  least  ambitious  of  her  sex.  That  Mrs. 
Dombey  had  entered  on  that  social  contract  of  matrimony  : 
almost  necessarily  part  of  a  genteel  and  wealthy  station,  even 
without  reference  to  the  perpetuation  of  family  firms  :  with 
her  eyes  fully  open  to  these  advantages.  That  Mrs.  Dombey 
had  had  daily  practical  knowledge  of  his  position  in  society. 
That  Mrs.  Dombey  had  always  sat  at  the  head  of  his  table, 
and  done  the  honors  of  his  house  in  a  remarkably  lady-like 
and  becoming  manner.  That  Mrs.  Dombey  must  have  been 
happy.     That  she  couldn't  help  it. 

Or,  at  all  events,  with  one  drawback.  Yes.  That  he 
would  have  allowed.  With  only  one  ;  but  that  one 
certainly  involving  much.  They  had  been  married  ten  years, 
and  until  this  present  day  on  which  Mr.  Dombey  sat  jin- 
gling and  jingling  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain  in  the  great 
arm-chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  had  had  no  issue. 

— To  speak  of  ;  none  worth  mentioning.  There  had  been 
a  girl  some  six  years  before,  and  the  child,  who  had  stolen 
into  the  chamber  unobserved,  was  now  crouching  timidly,  in 
a  corner  whence  she  could  see  her  mother's  face.  But 
what  was  a  girl  to  Dombey  and  Son  !  In  the  capital  of  the 
house's  name  and  dignity,  such  a  child  was  merely  a  piece 
of  base  coin  that  couldn't  be  invested — a  bad  Boy — nothing 
more. 

Mr.  Dombey's  cup  of  satisfaction  was  so  full  at  this  mo- 
ment, however,  that  he  felt  he  could  afford  a  drop  or  two  of 
its  contents,  even  to  sprinkle  on  the  dust  in  the  by-path  of 
his  little  daughter. 

So  he  said,  "  Florence,  you  may  go  and  look  at  your  pretty 
brother,  if  you  like,  I  dare  say.     Don't  touch  him  !  " 

The  child  glanced  keenly  at  the  blue  coat  and  stiff  white 
cravat,  which,  with  a  pair  of  creaking  boots  and  a  very  loud- 
ticking  watch,  embodied  her  idea  of  a  father  ;  but  her  eyes 
returned  to  her  mother's  face  immediately,  and  she  neither 
moved  nor  answered. 

Next  moment,  the  lady  had  opened  her  eyes  and  seen  the 
child  ;  and  the  child  had  run  toward  her  ;  and,  standing  on 
tiptoe,  the  better  to  hide  her  face  in  her  embrace,  had  clung 
about  her  with  a  desperate  affection  very  much  at  variance 
with  her  years. 


12  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Oh  Lord  bless  me  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  testily. 
"  A  very  ill-advised  and  feverish  proceeding  this,  I  am  sure. 
I  had  better  ask  Dr.  Peps  if  he'll  have  the  goodness  to  step 
up  stairs  again  perhaps.  I'll  go  down.  I'll  go  down.  I 
needn't  beg  you,"  he  added,  pausing  for  a  moment  at  the 
settee  before  the  fire,  *'  to  take  particular  care  of  this  young 
gentleman,  Mrs. " 

"  Blockitt,  sir  !  "  suggested  the  nurse,  a  simpering  piece  of 
faded  gentility,  who  did  not  presume  to  state  her  name  as  a 
fact,  but  merely  offered  it  as  a  mild  suggestion. 

"  Of  this  young  gentleman,  Mrs.  Blockitt." 

"  No,  sir,  indeed.  I  remember  when  Miss  Florence  was 
born — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  bending  over  the  basket 
bedstead,  and  slightly  bending  his  brows  at  the  same  time. 
"  Miss  Florence  was  all  very  well,  but  this  is  another  matter. 
This  young  gentleman  has  to  accomplish  a  destiny.  A  des- 
tiny, little  fellow  !  "  As  he  thus  apostrophized  the  infant 
he  raised  one  of  his  hands  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  ;  then, 
seeming  to  fear  that  the  action  involved  some  compromise 
of    his  dignity,  went,  awkwardly  enough,  away. 

Doctor  Parker  Peps,  one  of  the  Court  Physicians,  and  a 
man  of  immense  reputation  for  assisting  at  the  increase  of 
great  families,  was  walking  up  and  down  the  drawing  room 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  to  the  unspeakable  admiration 
of  the  family  surgeon,  who  had  regularly  puffed  the  case  for 
the  last  six  weeks,  among  all  his  patients,  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, as  one  to  which  he  was  in  hourly  expectation  day 
and  night  of  being  summoned,  in  conjunction  with  Doctor 
Parker  Peps. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps  in  a  round,  deep,  son- 
orous voice,  muffled  for  the  occasion,  like  the  knocker  ;  "  do 
you  find  that  your  dear  lady  is  at  all  roused  by  your  visit  ?  " 

"  Stimulated  as  it  were  ?  "  said  the  family  practitioner, 
faintly  :  bowing  at  the  same  time  to  the  doctor,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Excuse  my  putting  in  a  word,  but  this  is  a  valuable 
connection." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  quite  discomfited  by  the  question.  He 
had  thought  so  little  of  the  patient,  that  he  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  answer  it.  He  said  that  it  would  be  a  satisfac- 
tion to  him,  if  Doctor  Parker  Peps  would  walk  up  stairs 
again. 

"  Good  !     We  must  not  disguise  from  you,  sir,"  said  Doctor 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  13 

Parker  Peps,  "  that  there  is  a  want  of  power  in  Her  Grace 
the  Duchess — I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  confound  names  ;  I 
should  say,  in  your  amiable  lady.  That  there  is  a  certain 
degree  of  languor,  and  a  general  absence  of  elasticity,  which 
we  would  rather — not — " 

"  See,"  interposed  the  family  practitioner,  with  another 
inclination  of  the  head. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  "  which  we  would 
rather  not  see.  It  would  appear  that  the  system  of  Lady 
Cankaby — excuse  me  :  I  should  say  of  Mrs.  Dombey  :  I 
confuse  the  names  of  cases — " 

"  So  very  numerous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner — 
"  can't  be  expected,  I'm  sure — quite  wonderful  if  otherwise 
— Doctor  Parker  Peps's  West  End  practice — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "  quite  so.  It  would 
appear,  I  was  observing,  that  the  system  of  our  patient  has 
sustained  a  shock,  from  which  it  can  only  hope  to  rally  by  a 
great  and  strong — " 

"  And  vigorous,"  murmured  the  family  practitioner. 

"  Quite  so,"  assented  the  doctor — "  and  vigorous  effort. 
Mr.  Pilkins  here,  who  from  his  position  of  medical  adviser 
in  this  family — no  one  better  Qualified  to  fill  that  position,  I 
am  sure." 

"Oh  !  "  murmured  the  family  practitioner.  " '  Praise  from 
Sir  Hubert  Stanley  ! '  " 

"  You  are  good  enough,"  returned  Doctor  Parker  Peps, 
"  to  say  so.  Mr.  Pilkins  who,  from  his  position,  is  best 
acquainted  with  the  patient's  constitution  in  its  normal  state 
(an  acquaintance  very  valuable  to  us  in  forming  our  opin- 
ions on  these  occasions),  is  of  opinion,  with  me,  that  Nature 
must  be  called  upon  to  make  a  vigorous  effort  in  this 
instance  ;  and  that  if  our  interesting  friend  the  Countess  of 
Dombey — I  i?eg  your  pardon  ;  Mrs.  Dombey — should  not 
be—" 

"  Able,"  said  the  family  practitioner. 

"  To  make  that  effort  successfully,"  said  Doctor  Parker 
Peps,  "  then  a  crisis  might  arise,  which  we  should  both  sin- 
cerely deplore." 

With  that,  they  stood  for  a  few  seconds  looking  at  the 
ground.  Then,  on  the  motion — made  in  dumb  show — of 
Doctor  Parker  Peps,  they  went  up  stairs  :  the  family  prac- 
titioner opening  the  room  door  for  that  distinguished  profes- 
sional, and  following  him  out,  with  most  obsequious  politeness. 


14  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

To  record  of  Mr.  Dombey  that  he  was  not  in  his  way 
affected  by  this  intelHgence,  would  be  to  do  him  an  injus- 
tice. He  was  not  a  man  of  whom  it  could  properly  be  said 
that  he  was  ever  startled  or  shocked  ;  but  he  certainly  had 
a  sense  within  him,  that  if  his  wife  should  sicken  and  decay, 
he  would  be  very  sorry,  and  that  he  would  find  a  something 
gone  from  among  his  plate  and  furniture,  and  other  house- 
hold possessions,  which  was  well  worth  the  having,  and 
could  not  be  lost  without  sincere  regret.  Though  it  would 
be  a  cool,  business-like,  gentlemanly,  self-possessed  regret, 
no  doubt. 

His  meditations  on  the  subject  were  soon  interrupted, 
first  by  the  rustling  of  garments  on  the  staircase,  and  then 
by  the  sudden  whisking  into  the  room  of  a  lady  rather  past 
the  middle  age  than  otherwise,  but  dressed  in  a  very  juvenile 
manner,  particularly  as  to  the  tightness  of  her  bodice,  who, 
running  up  to  him  with  a  kind  of  screw  in  her  face  and 
carriage,  expressive  of  suppressed  emotion,  flung  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  said,  in  a  choking  voice  : 

"  My  dear  Paul  !     He's  quite  a  Dombey  !  " 

"  Well,  well  !  "  returned  her  brother — for  Mr.  Dombey 
was  her  brother — "  I  think  he  is  like  the  family.  Don't 
agitate  yourself,   Louisa." 

"  It's  very  foolish  of  me,"  said  Louisa,  sitting  down,  and 
taking  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  "  but  he's — he's  such  a 
perfect  Dombey  !  /never  saw  any  thing  like  it  in  my  life  !  " 

"  But  what  is  this  about  Fanny,  herself  ? "  said  Mr. 
Dombey.     "  How  is  Fanny  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  Louisa,  "  it's  nothing  whatever. 
Take  my  word,  it's  nothing  whatever.  There  is  exhaustion, 
certainly,  but  nothing  like  what  I  underwent  myself,  either 
with  George  or  Frederick.  An  effort  is  necessary.  That's 
all.  If  dear  Fanny  were  a  Dombey  ! — But  I  dare  say  she'll 
make  it  ;  I  have  no  doubt  she'll  make  it.  Knowing  it  to 
be  required  of  her,  as  a  duty,  of  course  she'll  make  it. 
My  dear  Paul,  it's  very  weak  and  silly  of  me,  I  know,  to  be 
so  trembly  and  shaky  from  head  to  foot  ;  but  I  am  so 
very  queer  that  I  must  ask  you  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  a 
morsel  of  that  cake.  I  thought  I  should  have  fallen  out 
of  the  staircase  window  as  I  came  down  from  seeing  dear 
Fanny,  and  that  tiddy  ickle  sing."  These  last  words  orig« 
inated  in  a  sudden  vivid  reminiscence  of  the  baby. 

They  were  succeeded  by  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  15 

"  Mrs.  Chick,"  said  a  very  bland  female  voice  outside, 
"  how  are  you  now,  my  dear  friend  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Louisa,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
rose  from  her  seat,  "  it's  Miss  Tox.  The  kindest  creature  ! 
I  never  could  have  got  here  without  her  !  Miss  Tox,  my 
brother  Mr.  Dombey.  Paul,  my  dear,  my  very  particular 
friend  Miss  Tox." 

The  lady  thus  specially  presented,  was  a  long  lean  figure, 
wearing  such  a  faded  air  that  she  seemed  not  to  have  been 
made  in  what  linen-drapers  call  "  fast  colors"  originally, 
and  to  have,  by  little  and  little,  washed  out.  But  for  this 
she  might  have  been  described  as  the  very  pink  of  general 
propitiation  and  politeness.  From  a  long  habit  of  listen- 
ing admirably  to  every  thing  that  was  said  in  her  pres- 
ence, and  looking  at  the  speakers  as  if  she  were  mentally 
engaged  in  taking  off  impressions  of  their  images  upon 
her  soul,  never  to  part  with  the  same  but  with  life,  her 
head  had  quite  settled  on  one  side.  Her  hands  had  con- 
tracted a  spasmodic  habit  of  raising  themselves  of  their  own 
accord  as  m  involuntary  admiration.  Her  eyes  were  liable 
to  a  similar  affection.  She  had  the  softest  voice  that  ever 
was  heard  ;  and  her  nose,  stupendously  aquiline,  had  a 
little  knob  in  the  very  center  or  key-stone  of  the  bridge, 
whence  it  tended  downward  toward  her  face,  as  in  an  invin- 
cible determination  never  to  turn  up  at  any  thing. 

Miss  Tox's  dress,  though  perfectly  genteel  and  good, 
had  a  certain  character  of  angularity  and  scantiness.  She 
was  accustomed  to  wear  odd  weedy  little  flowers  in  her 
bonnets  and  caps.  Strange  grasses  were  sometimes  perceived 
in  her  hair  ;  and  it  was  observed  by  the  curious,  of  all  her 
collars,  fi?ilis,  tuckers,  wrist-bands,  and  other  gossamer  arti- 
cles— indeed  of  every  thing  she  wore  which  had  two  ends  to 
it  intended  to  unite — that  the  two  ends  were  never  on  good 
terms,  and  wouldn't  quite  meet  without  a  struggle.  She 
had  furry  articles  for  winter  wear,  as  tippets,  boas,  and 
muffs,  which  stood  up  on  end  in  a  rampant  manner,  and 
were  not  at  all  sleek.  She  was  much  given  to  the  carrying 
about  of  small  bags  with  snaps  to  them,  that  went  off  like 
little  pistols  when  they  were  shut  up  ;  and  when  full-dressed, 
she  wore  round  her  neck  the  barrenest  of  lockets,  represent- 
ing a  fishy  old  eye,  with  no  approach  to  speculation  in  it. 
These  and  other  appearances  of  a  similar  nature,  had 
served  to  propagate  the  opinion,  that  Miss  Tox  was  a  lady 


i6  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

of  what  is  called  a  limited  independence,  which  she  turned 
to  the  best  account.  Possibly  her  mincing  gait  encouraged 
the  belief,  and  suggested  that  her  clipping  a  step  of  ordi- 
nary compass  into  two  or  three,  originated  in  her  habit  of 
making  the  most  of  every  thing. 

'*  I  am  sure,"  said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  prodigious  courtesy, 
"  that  to  have  the  honor  of  being  presented  to  Mr.  Dombey 
is  a  distinction  which  I  have  long  sought,  but  very  little 
expected  at  the  present  moment.  My  dear  Mrs.  Chick — 
may  I  say  Louisa  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  took  Miss  Tox's  hand  in  hers,  rested  the 
foot  of  her  wine-glass  upon  it,  repressed  a  tear,  and  said  in 
a  low  voice,  "  Bless  you  !  " 

"  My  dear  Louisa  then,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  my  sweet  friend, 
how  are  you  now  ?  " 

"  Better,"  Mrs.  Chick  returned.  "  Take  some  wine. 
You  ha,ve  been  almost  as  anxious  as  I  have  been,  ana  must 
want  it,  I  am  sure." 

Mr.  Dombey  of  course  officiated. 

"  Miss  Tox,  Paul,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  still  retaining  her 
hand,  "knowing  how  much  I  have  been  interested  in  the 
anticipation  of  the  event  of  to-day,  has  been  working  at  a 
little  gift  for  Fanny,  which  I  promised  to  present.  It  is 
only  a  pin-cushion  for  the  toilet-table,  Paul,  but  I  do  say, 
and  will  say,  and  must  say,  that  Miss  Tox  has  very  prettily 
adapted  the  sentiment  to  the  occasion.  I  call  '  Welcome, 
little  Dombey'  poetry,  myself  !  " 

"  Is  that  the  device  ?  "  inquired  her  brother. 

"  That  is  the  device,"  returned  Louisa. 

"But  do  me  the  justice  to  remember,  my  dear  Louisa," 
said  Miss  Tox  in  a  tone  of  low  and  earnest  entreaty,  "  that 
nothing  but  the — I  have  some  difficulty  in  expressing 
myself — the  dubiousness  of  the  result  would  have  induced 
me  to  take  so  great  a  liberty  :  *  Welcome,  Master  Dombey,' 
would  have  been  much  more  congenial  to  my  feelings,  as  I 
am  sure  you  know.  But  the  uncertainty  attendant  on  angelic 
strangers  will,  I  hope,  excuse  what  must  otherwise  appear 
an  unwarrantable  familiarity."  Miss  Tox  made  a  graceful 
bend  as  she  spoke  in  favor  of  Mr,  Dombey,  which  that 
gentleman  graciously  acknowledged.  Even  the  sort  of  rec- 
ognition of  Dombey  and  Son,  conveyed  in  the  foregoing 
conversation,  was  so  palatable  to  him,  that  his  sister,  Mrs. 
Chick — though  he  affected  to  consider  her  a  weak,  good- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  17 

natured  person — had  perhaps  more  influence  over  him  than 
any  body  else. 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  after  this, 
I  forgive  Fanny  every  thing  !  " 

It  was  a  declaration  in  a  Christian  spirit,  and  Mrs.  Chick 
felt  that  it  did  her  good.  Not  that  she  had  any  thing  par- 
ticular to  forgive  in  her  sister-in-law,  nor  indeed  any  thing 
at  all,  except  her  having  married  her  brother — in  itself  a 
species  of  audacity — and  her  having,  in  the  course  of  events, 
given  birth  to  a  girl  instead  of  a  boy  :  which,  as  Mrs.  Chick 
had  frequently  observed,  was  not  quite  what  she  had  expected 
of  her,  and  was  not  a  pleasant  return  for  all  the  atten- 
tion and  distinction  she  had  met  with. 

Mr.  Dombey  being  hastily  summoned  out  of  the  room  at 
this  moment,  the  two  ladies  were  left  alone  together.  Miss 
Tox  immediately  became  spasmodic. 

"  I  knew  you  would  admire  my  brother.  I  told  you  so 
beforehand,  my  dear,"  said  Louisa. 

Miss  Tox's  hands  and  eyes  expressed  how  much. 

"  And  as  to  his  property,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Miss  Tox,  with  deep  feeling. 

"  Im-mense  !  " 

"  But  his  deportment,  my  dear  Louisa  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 
"  His  presence  !  His  dignity  !  No  portrait  that  I  have 
ever  seen  of  any  one  has  been  half  so  replete  with  those 
qualities.  Something  so  stately,  you  know  :  so  uncom- 
promising :  so  very  wide  across  the  chest  :  so  upright  !  A 
pecuniary  Duke  of  York,  my  love,  and  nothing  short  of  it  !  " 
said  Miss  Tox.     "  That's  what  /  should  designate  him." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Paul  !  "  exclaimed  his  sister,  as  he 
returned,  "  you  look  quite  pale  !  There's  nothing  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Louisa,  that  they  tell  me  that 
Fanny — " 

"  Now,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  rising,  "  don't 
believe  it.  If  you  have  any  reliance  on  my  experience, 
Paul,  you  may  rest  assured  that  there  is  nothing  wanting 
but  an  effort  on  Fanny's  part.  And  that  effort,"  she  con- 
tinued, taking  off  her  bonnet,  and  adjusting  her  cap  and 
gloves,  in  a  business-like  manner,  "  she  must  be  encour- 
aged, and  really,  if  necessary,  urged  to  make.  Now,  my 
dear  Paul,  come  up  stairs  with  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who,  besides  being  generally  influenced  by 


i8  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

his  sister  for  the  reason  already  mentioned,  had  really  faith 
in  her  as  an  experienced  and  bustling  matron,  acquiesced  : 
and  followed  her,  at  once,  to  the  sick-chamber. 

The  lady  lay  upon  her  bed  as  he  had  left  her,  clasping 
her  little  daughter  to  her  breast.  The  child  clung  close 
about  her,  with  the  same  intensity  as  before,  and  never 
raised  her  head,  or  moved  her  soft  cheek  from  her  mother's 
face,  or  looked  on  those  who  stood  around,  or  spoke,  or 
moved,  or  shed  a  tear. 

"  Restless  without  the  little  girl,"  the  doctor  whispered 
Mr.   Dombey.     "  We  found  it  best  to  have  her  in  again." 

There  was  such  a  solemn  stillness  round  the  bed  ;  and 
the  two  medical  attendants  seemed  to  look  on  the  impas- 
sive form  with  so  much  compassion  and  so  little  hope,  that 
Mrs.  Chick  was  for  the  moment  diverted  from  her  purpose. 
But  presently  summoning  courage,  and  what  she  called 
presence  of  mind,  she  sat  down  by  the  bedside,  and  said  in 
the  low  precise  tone  of  one  who  endeavors  to  awaken  a 
sleeper  : 

"  Fanny  !  Fanny  !  " 

There  was  no  sound  in  answer  but  the  loud  ticking  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  watch  and  Doctor  Parker  Peps's  watch,  which 
seemed  in  the  silence  to  be  running  a  race. 

"  Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  assumed  light- 
ness, "  here's  Mr.  Dombey  come  to  see  you.  Won't  you 
speak  to  him  ?  They  want  to  lay  your  little  boy — the  baby, 
Fanny,  you  know  ;  you  have  hardly  seen  him  yet,  I  think 
— in  bed  ;  but  they  can't  till  you  rouse  yourself  a  little. 
Don't  you  think  it's  time  you  roused  yourself  a  little  ?  Eh  ?  " 

She  bent  her  ear  to  the  bed,  and  listened  :  at  the  same 
time  looking  round  at  the  by-standers,  and  holding  up  her 
finger. 

"  Eh  ?  "  she  repeated,  "  what  was  it  you  said,  Fanny  ?  I 
didn't  hear  you." 

No  word  or  sound  in  answer.  Mr.  Dombey's  watch  and 
Dr.  Parker  Peps's  watch  seemed  to  be  racing  faster. 

"  Now,  really  Fanny,  my  dear,"  said  the  sister-in-law, 
altering  her  position,  and  speaking  less  confidently,  and  more 
earnestly,  in  spite  of  herself,  "  I  shall  have  to  be  quite  cross 
with  you,  if  you  don't  rouse  yourself.  It's  necessary  for  you 
to  make  an  effort,  and  perhaps  a  very  great  and  painful  effort 
which  you  are  not  disposed  to  make  ;  but  this  is  a  world  of 
effort,  you  know,   Fanny,  and  we  must  never  yield,  when  gQ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  19 

much  depends  upon  us.  Come  !  Try  !  I  must  really  scold 
you  if  you  don't  !  " 

The  race  in  the  ensuing  pause  was  fierce  and  furious.  The 
watches  seemed  to  jostle,  and  to  trip  each  other  up. 

"  Fanny  !  "  said  Louisa,  glancing  round,  with  a  gathering 
alarm.  "  Only  look  at  me.  Only  open  your  eyes  to  show  me 
that  you  hear  and  understand  me  ;  will  you  ?  Good  heaven, 
gentlemen,  what  is  to  be  done  !  " 

The  two  medical  attendants  exchanged  a  looit  across  tne 
bed  ;  and  the  physician,  stooping  down,  whispered  in  the 
child's  ear.  Not  having  understood  the  purport  of  his  whis- 
per, the  little  creature  turned  her  perfectly  colorless  face,  and 
deep  dark  eyes  toward  him  ;  but  without  loosening  her  hold 
in  the  least. 

The  whisper  was  repeated. 

"  Mamma  !  "  said  the  child. 

The  little  voice,  familiar  and  dearly  loved,  awakened  some 
show  of  consciousness,  even  at  that  ebb.  For  a  moment,  the 
closed  eyelids  trembled,  and  the  nostrils  quivered,  and  the 
faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  was  seen. 

"  Mamma  !  "  cried  the  child,  sobbing  aloud.  "  Oh  dear 
mamma  !  oh  dear  mamma  !  " 

The  doctor  gently  brushed  the  scattered  ringlets  of  the 
child  aside  from  the  face  and  mouth  of  the  mother.  Alas 
how  calm  they  lay  there  ;  how  little  breath  there  was  to  stir 
them  ! 

Thus,  clinging  fast  to  that  slight  spar  within  her  arms,  the 
mother  drifted  out  upon  the  dark  and  unknown  sea  that  rolls 
round  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  WHICH  TIMELY  PROVISION  IS  MADE  FOR  AN  EMERGENCY 
THAT  WILL  SOMETIMES  ARISE  IN  THE  BEST  REGULATED 
FAMILIES. 

"  I  shall  never  cease  to  congratulate  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  "  on  having  said,  when  I  little  thought  what  was  in 
store  for  us — really  as  if  I  was  inspired  by  something — that 
I  forgave  poor  dear  Fanny  every  thing.  Whatever  happens, 
that  must   always  be  a  comfort  to  me  !  " 


20  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Mrs.  Chick  made  this  impressive  observation  in  the  draw- 
ing  room,  after  having  descended  thither  from  the  inspection 
of  the  mantua-makers  up  stairs,  who  were  busy  on  the  family 
mourning.  She  delivered  it  for  the  behoof  of  Mr.  Chick,  who 
was  a  stout  bald  gentleman,  with  a  very  large  face,  and  his 
hands  continually  in  his  pockets,  and  who  had  a  tendency  in 
his  nature  to  whistle  and  hum  tunes,  which,  sensible  of  the 
indecorum  of  such  sounds  in  a  house  of  grief,  he  was  at  some 
pains  to  repress  at  present. 

"  Don't  you  over-exert  yourself.  Loo,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  "  or 
you'll  be  laid  up  with  spasms,  I  see.  Right  tol  loor  rul ! 
Bless  my  soul,  I  forgot  !  We're  here  one  day  and  gone  the 
next  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  contented  herself  with  a  glance  of  reproof,  and 
then  proceeded  with  the  thread  of  her  discourse. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  hope  this  heart-rending  occur- 
rence will  be  a  warning  to  all  of  us,  to  accustom  ourselves 
to  rouse  ourselves,  and  to  make  efforts  in  time  where  they're 
required  of  us.  There's  a  moral  in  every  thing,  if  we  only 
avail  ourselves  of  it.  It  will  be  our  own  faults  if  we  lose 
sight  of  this  one." 

Mr.  Chick  invaded  the  grave  silence  which  ensued  on  this 
remark  with  the  singularly  inappropriate  air  of  "  A  cobbler 
there  was;"  and  checking  himself,  in  some  confusion, 
observed,  that  it  was  undoubtedly  our  own  faults  if  we  didn't 
improve  such  melancholy  occasions  as  the  present. 

*'  Which  might  be  better  improved,  I  should  think,  Mr. 
C,"  retorted  his  helpmate,  after  a  short  pause,  "  than  by  the 
introduction,  either  of  the  college  horn-pipe,  or  the  equally 
unmeaning  and  unfeeling  remark  of  rump-te-iddity,  bow- 
wow-wow I " — which  Mr.  Chick  had  indeed  indulged  in,  under 
his  breath,  and  which  Mrs.  Chick  repeated  in  a  tone  of  wither- 
ing scorn. 

"  Merely  habit,  my  dear,"  pleaded  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Nonsense  I  Habit  !  "  returned  his  wife.  *'  If  you're  a 
rational  being,  don't  make  such  ridiculous  excuses.  Habit  ! 
If  I  was  to  get  a  habit  (as  you  call  it)  of  walking  on  the  ceil- 
ing, like  the  flies,  I  should  hear  enough  of  it,  I  dare  say." 

It  appeared  so  probable  that  such  a  habit  might  be  attended 
with  some  degree  of  notoriety,  that  Mr.  Chick  didn't  ven- 
ture to  dispute  the  position. 

"How's  the  baby,  Loo?"  asked  Mr,  Chick:  to  change 
the  subject. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  21 

"  What  baby  do  you  mean  ?  "  answered  Mrs.  Chick.  "  I 
am  sure  the  morning  I  have  had,  with  that  dining-room 
down  stairs  one  mass  of  babies,  no  one  in  their  senses  would 
believe." 

"  One  mass  of  babies  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Chick,  staring  with 
an  alarmed  expression  about  him. 

"  It  would  have  occurred  to  most  men,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  that  poor  dear  Fanny  being  no  more,  it  becomes  necessary 
to  provide  a  nurse." 

"  Oh  !  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Chick.  "  Toor-rul— such  is  life, 
I  mean.     I  hope  you  are  suited,  my  dear." 

"  Indeed  I  am  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  nor  likely  to  be, 
so  far  as  I  can  see.     Meanwhile,  of  course,  the  child  is — " 

"  Going  to  the  very  deuce,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  thoughtfully, 
"  to  be  sure." 

Admonished,  however,  that  he  had  committed  himself,  by 
the  indignation  expressed  in  Mrs.  Chick's  countenance  at  the 
idea  of  a  Dombey  going  there  ;  and  thinking  to  atone  for  his 
misconduct  by  a  bright  suggestion,  he  added  : 

"  Couldn't  something  temporary  be  done  with  a  tea-pot  ? " 

If  he  had  meant  to  bring  the  subject  prematurely  to  a  close, 
he  could  not  have  done  it  more  effectually.  After  looking 
at  him  for  some  moments  in  silent  resignation,  Mrs.  Chick 
walked  majestically  to.  the  window  and  peeped  through  the 
blind,  attracted  by  the  sound  of  wheels.  Mr.  Chick,  finding 
that  his  destiny  was,  for  the  time,  against  him,  said  no  more, 
and  walked  off.  But  it  was  not  always  thus  with  Mr.  Chick. 
He  was  often  in  the  ascendant  himself,  and  at  those  times 
punished  Louisa  roundly.  In  their  matrimonial  bickerings 
they  were,  upon  the  whole,  a  well-matched,  fairly-balanced, 
give-and-take  couple.  It  would  have  been,  generally  speak- 
ing, very  difficult  to  have  betted  on  the  winner.  Often  when 
Mr.  Chick  seemed  beaten,  he  would  suddenly  make  a  start, 
turn  the  tables,  clatter  them  about  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Chick, 
and  carry  all  before  him.  Being  liable  himself  to  similar 
unlooked-for  checks  from  Mrs.  Chick,  their  little  contests 
usually  possessed  a  character  of  uncertainty  that  was  very 
animating. 

Miss  Tox  had  arrived  on  the  wheels  just  now  alluded  to,  and 
came  running  into  the  room  in  a  breathless  condition. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  is  the  vacancy  still 
unsupplied  ?" 

"  You  good  soul,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 


22  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

"  Then,  mv  dear  Louisa,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  hope 
and  believe — but  in  one  moment,  my  dear,  I'll  introduce  the 
party." 

Running  down  stairs  again  as  fast  as  she  had  run  up,  Miss 
Tox  got  the  party  out  of  the  hackney-coach,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  it  under  convoy. 

It  then  appeared  that  she  had  used  the  word,  not  in  its 
legal  or  business  acceptation,  when  it  merely  expressed  an 
individual,  but  as  a  noun  of  multitude,  or  signifying  many  : 
for  Miss  Tox  escorted  a  plump  rosy-cheeked  wholesome 
apple-faced  young  woman,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms  ;  a 
younger  woman  not  so  plump,  but  apple-faced  also,  who  led 
a  plump  and  apple-faced  child  in  each  hand  ;  another  plump 
and  also  apple-faced  boy  who  walked  by  himself  ;  and  finally, 
a  plump  and  apple-faced  man,  who  carried  in  his  arms 
another  plump  and  apple-faced  boy,  whom  he  stood  down  on 
the  floor,  and  admonished;  in  a  husky  whisper,  to  "  kitch  hold 
of  his  brother  Johnny." 

"My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "knowing  your  great 
anxiety,  and  wishing  to  relieve  it,  I  posted  off  myself  to  the 
Queen  Charlotte's  Royal  Married  Females,  which  you  had 
forgot,  and  put  the  question.  Was  there  any  body  there  that 
they  thought  would  suit  ?  No,  they  said  there  was  not. 
When  they  gave  me  that  answer,  I  do  assure  you,  my  dear, 
I  was  almost  driven  to  despair  on  your  account.  But  it  did 
so  happen,  that  one  of  the  Royal  Married  Females,  hearing 
the  inquiry,  reminded  the  m^atron  of  another  who  had  gone 
to  her  own  home,  and  who,  she  said,  would  in  all  likelihood 
be  most  satisfactory.  The  moment  I  heard  this,  and  had  it 
corroborated  by  the  matron — excellent  references  and  unim- 
peachable character — I  got  the  address,  my  dear,  and  posted 
off  again." 

"  Like  the  dear  good  Tox,  you  are  !  "  said  Louisa. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  Don't  say  so.  Arriv- 
ing at  the  house  (the  cleanest  place,  my  dear  !  You  might 
eat  your  dinner  off  the  floor),  I  found  the  whole  family  sitting 
at  table  ;  and  feeling  that  no  account  of  them  could  be  half 
so  comfortable  to  you  and  Mr.  Dombey  as  the  sight  of  them 
all  together,  I  brought  them  all  away.  This  gentleman,"  said 
Miss  Tox,  pointing  out  the  apple-faced  man,"  is  the  father. 
Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  come  a  little  forward,  sir  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  having  sheepishly  complied  with  this 
request,  stood  chuckling  and  grinning  in  a  front  row. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  «3 

"  This  is  his  wife,  of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  singling  out  the 
young  woman  with  the  baby.     "  How  do  you  do,  Polly  ?  " 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Polly. 

By  way  of  bringing  her  out  dexterouslv,  Miss  Tox  had  made 
the  inquiry  as  in  condescension  to  an  old  acquaintance  whom 
she  hadn't  seen  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  The  other  young 
woman  is  her  unmarried  sister  who  lives  with  them,  and  would 
take  care  of  her  children.     Her  name's  Jemima.  How  do  you 

do,  Jemima  ?  "  j  t      • 

"  I'm  pretty  well,  I  thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Jemima. 
"I'm  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "I 
hope  you'  11  keep  so.  Five  children.  Youngest  six  weeks. 
The  fine  little  bov  with  the  blister  on  his  nose  is  the  eldest. 
ThebUster,  I  believe,"  said  Miss  Tox,  looking  round  upon 
the  familv,  "  is  not  constitutional,  but  accidental  ?  " 

The  apple-faced  man  was  understood  to  growl,"  Flat-iron." 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  did  you—?  " 
"  Flat-iron,"  he  repeated. 

"  Oh  ves,"  said  Miss  Tox.     "  Yes  !  quite  true.     I  forgot. 
The  little  creature,  in  his  mother's  absence,  smelled  a  warm 
flat-iron.     You're  quite  right,  sir.     You  were  going  to  have 
the  goodness  to  inform  me,  when  we  arrived  at  the  door,  that 
you  were  by  trade,  a — " 
"  Stoker,"  said  the  man. 
"  A  choker  !  "    said  Miss  Tox,  quite  aghast. 
"  Stoker,"  said  the  man.     "  Steam-ingine." 
"  Oh-h  !  Yes  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox,  looking  thoughtfully 
at  him,  and  seeming  still  to  have  but  a  very  imperfect  under- 
standing of  his  meaning. 

"  And  how  do  you  like  it,  sir  ?  " 
"  Which,  mum'?  "  said  the  man. 
"  That,"  replied  Miss  Tox.     "  Your  trade." 
"  Oh  !  Pretty  well,  mum.     The  ashes  sometimes  gets  m 
here,"  touching  his  chest  :  "  and  makes  a  man  speak  gruff,  as 
at  the  present  time.     But  it  is  ashes,  mum,  not  crustiness." 

Miss  Tox  seemed  to  be  so  little  enlightened  by  this  reply,  as 
to  find  a  difficulty  in  pursuing  the  subject.  But  Mrs.  Chick 
relieved  her,  by  entering  into  a  close  private  examination  of 
Polly,  her  children,  her  marriage  certificate,  testimonials,  and 
so  forth.  PoUv  coming  out  unscathed  from  this  ordeal,  Mrs. 
Chick  withdrew  with  her  report  to  her  brother's  room,  and  as 
an  emphatic  comment  on  it,  and  corroboration  of  it,  carried 


24  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  two  rosiest  little  Toodles  with  her,  Toodle  being  the  fam- 
ily  name  of  the  apple-faced  family. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  remained  in  his  own  apartment  since 
the  death  of  his  wife,  absorbed  in  visions  of  the  youth,  educa- 
tion, and  destination  of  his  baby  son.  Something  lay  at  the 
bottom  of  his  cool  heart,  colder  and  heavier  than  its  ordin- 
ary load  ;  but  it  was  more  a  sense  of  the  child's  loss  than 
his  own,  awakening  within  him  an  almost  angry  sorrow. 
That  the  life  and  progress  on  which  he  built  such  hopes, 
should  be  endangered  in  the  outset  by  so  mean  a  want  ; 
that  Dombey  and  Son  should  be  tottering  for  a  nurse,  was  a 
sore  humiliation.  And  yet  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  he 
viewed  with  so  much  bitterness  the  thought  of  being  depend- 
ent for  the  very  first  step  toward  the  accomplishment  of 
his  soul's  desire,  on  a  hired  serving-woman  who  would  be  to 
the  child,  for  the  time,  all  that  even  his  alliance  could  have 
made  his  own  wife,  that  in  every  new  rejection  of  a  candi- 
date he  felt  a  secret  pleasure.  The  time  had  now  come, 
however,  when  he  could  no  longer  be  divided  between  these 
two  sets  of  feelings.  The  less  so,  as  there  seemed  to  be  no 
flaw  in  the  title  of  Polly  Toodle  after  his  sister  had  set  it 
forth,  with  many  commendations  on  the  indefatigable  friend- 
ship of  Miss  Tox. 

"  These  children  look  healthy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  But 
to  think  of  their  some  day  claiming  a  sort  of  relationship  to 
Paul  !  Take  them  away,  Louisa  !  Let  me  see  this  woman 
and  her  husband." 

Mrs.  Chick  bore  off  the  tender  pair  of  Toodles,  and 
presently  returned  with  that  tougher  couple  whose  presence 
her  brother  had  commanded. 

"  My  good  woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  round  in 
his  easy-chair,  as  one  piece,  and  not  as  a  man  with  limbs 
and  joints,  "  I  understand  you  are  poor,  and.  wish  to  earn 
money  by  nursing  the  little  boy,  my  son,  who  has  been  so 
prematurely  deprived  of  what  can  never  be  replaced.  I 
have  no  objection  to  your  adding  to  the  comforts  of  your 
family  by  that  means.  So  far  as  I  can  tell,  you  seem  to  be 
a  deserving  object.  But  I  must  impose  one  or  two  condi- 
tions on  you,  before  you  enter  my  house  in  that  capacity. 
While  you  are  here,  I  must  stipulate  that  you  are  always 
known  as — say  as  Richards — an  ordinary  name,  and  con- 
venient. Have  you  any  objection  to  be  known  as  Richards  ? 
You  had  better  consult  your  husband." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  25 

As  the  husband  did  nothing  but  chuckle  and  grin,  and 
continually  draw  his  right  hand  across  his  mouth,  moisten- 
ing the  palm,  Mrs.  Toodle,  after  nudging  him  twice  or  thrice 
in  vain,  dropped  a  courtesy,  and  replied,  "  that  perhaps  if 
she  was  to  be  called  out  of  her  name,  it  would  be  considered 
in  the  wages." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  desire  to  make 
it  a  question  of  wages,  altogether.  Now,  Richards,  if  you 
nurse  my  bereaved  child,  I  wish  you  to  remember  this 
always.  You  will  receive  a  liberal  stipend  in  return  for  the 
discharge  of  certain  duties,  in  the  performance  of  which,  I 
wish  you  to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible.  When 
those  duties  cease  to  be  required  and  rendered,  and  the 
stipend  ceases  to  be  paid,  there  is  an  end  of  all  relations 
between  us.     Do  you  understand  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Toodle  seemed  doubtful  about  it  ;  and  as  to  Toodle 
himself,  he  had  evidently  no  doubt  whatever,  that  he  was 
all  abroad. 

"  You  have  children  of  your  own,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  It  is  not  at  all  in  this  bargain  that  you  need  become 
attached  to  my  child,  or  that  my  child  need  become  attached 
to  you.  I  don't  expect  or  desire  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
Quite  the  reverse.  When  you  go  away  from  here,  you  will 
have  concluded  what  is  a  mere  matter  of  bargain  and  sale, 
hiring  and  letting  ;  and  will  stay  away.  The  child  will 
cease  to  remember  you  ;  and  you  will  cease,  if  you  please, 
to  remember  the  child." 

Mrs.  Toodle,  with  a  little  more  color  in  her  cheeks  than 
she  had  had  before,  said  ''she  hoped  she  knew  her  place." 

"  I  hope  you  do,  Richards,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I  have 
no  doubt  you  know  it  very  well.  Indeed  it  is  so  plain  and 
obvious  that  it  could  hardly  be  otherwise.  Louisa,  my 
dear,  arrange  with  Richards  about  money,  and  let  her  have 
it  when  and  how  she  pleases.  Mr.  What's-your-name,  a 
word  with  you,  if  you  please  !  " 

Thus  arrested  on  the  threshold  as  he  was  following  his 
wife  out  of  the  room,  Toodle  returned  and  confronted  Mr. 
Dombey  alone.  He  was  a  strong,  loose,  round-shouldered, 
shuffling,  shaggy  fellow,  on  whom  his  clothes  sat  negligently  : 
with  a  good  deal  of  hair  and  whisker,  deepened  in  its 
natural  tint,  perhaps,  by  smoke  and  coal-dust  :  hard  knotty 
hands  :  and  a  square  forehead,  as  coarse  in  grain  as  the 
bark  of  an  oak.     A  thorough  contrast  in  all  respects  to  Mr. 


26  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Dombey,  who  was  one  of  those  close-shaved  close-cut 
moneyed  gentlemen  who  are  glossy  and  crisp  like  new  bank- 
notes, and  who  seem  to  be  artificially  braced  and  tightened 
as  by  the  stimulating  action  of  golden  shower-baths. 

"You  have  a  son,  I  believe?  "    said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Four  on  'em,  sir.     Four  hims  and  a  her.     All  alive  !  " 

"  Why,  it's  as  much  as  you  can  afford  to  keep  them  ! " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  couldn't  hardly  afford  but  one  thing  in  the  world  less, 
sir.*' 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  To  lose  'em,  sir." 

"  Can  you  read  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  Why,  not  partick'ler,  sir." 

"  Write  ? " 
•    "  With  chalk,  sir  ?  " 

"With  any  thing?" 

"  I  could  make  shift  to  chalk  a  little  bit,  I  think,  if  I  was 
put  to  it,"  said  Toodle,  after  some  reflection. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  two  or  three  and 
thirty,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Thereabout,  I  suppose,  sir,"  answered  Toodle,  after 
more  reflection. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  learn  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  So  I'm  agoing  to,  sir.  One  of  my  little  boys  is  agoing 
to  learn  me,  when  he's  old  enough,  and  been  to  school 
himself," 

^  "  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  looking  at  him  atten- 
tively, and  with  no  great  favor,  as  he  stood  gazing  round 
the  room  (principally  round  the  ceiling)  and  still  drawing 
his  hand  across  and  across  his  mouth.  "  You  heard  what  I 
said  to  your  wife  just  now  ?  " 

"  Polly  heerd  it,"  said  Toodle,  jerking  his  hat  over  his 
shoulder  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  with  an  air  of  perfect 
confidence  in  his  better  half.     "  It's  all  right." 

"  As  you  appear  to  leave  every  thing  to  her,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  frustrated  in  his  intention  of  impressing  his  views 
still  more  distinctly  on  the  husband,  as  the  stronger  charac- 
ter, "  I  suppose  it  is  of  no  use  my  saying  any  thing  to 
you.*' 

"  Not  a  tit,"  said  Toodle.  "  Polly  heerd  it.  S^e's  awake, 
sir." 

"I   won't   detain    you  any    longer    then,"  returned  Mr. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  27 

Dorabey,  disappointed.  "  Where  have  you  worked  all  your 
life  ?  " 

"  Mostly  underground,  sir,  till  I  got  married.  I  come  to 
the  level  then.  I'm  agoing  on  one  of  these  here  railroads 
when  they  comes  into  full  play." 

As  the  last  straw  breaks  the  laden  camel's  back,  this 
piece  of  underground  information  crushed  the  sinking 
spirits  of  Mr.  Dombey.  He  motioned  his  child's  foster- 
father  to  the  door,  who  departed  by  no  means  unwillingly  : 
and  then  turning  the  key,  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in 
solitary  wretchedness.  For  all  his  starched,  impenetrable 
dignity  and  composure,  he  wiped  blinding  tears  from  his 
eyes  as  he  did  so  ;  and  often  said,  with  an  emotion  of  which 
he  would  not,  for  the  world,  have  had  a  witness,  "  Poor 
little  fellow  !  " 

It  may  have  been  characteristic  of  Mr.  Dombey's  pride, 
that  he  pitied  himself  through  the  child.  Not  poor  me. 
Not  poor  widower,  confiding  by  constraint  in  the  wife  of  an 
ignorant  hind  who  has  been  working  "  mostly  underground" 
all  his  life,  and  yet  at  whose  door  Death  had  never  knocked, 
and  at  whose  poor  table  four  sons  daily  sit — but  poor  little 
fellow  ! 

Those  words  being  on  his  lips,  it  occurred  to  him — and 
it  is  an  instance  of  the  strong  attraction  with  which  his 
hopes  and  fears  and  all  his  thoughts  were  tending  to  one 
center — that  a  great  temptation  was  being  placed  in  this 
woman's  way.  Her  infant  was  a  boy  too.  Now,  would  it 
be  possible  for  her  to  change  them  ? 

Though  he  was  soon  satisfied  that  he  had  dismissed  tlie 
idea  as  romantic  and  unlikely — though  possible,  there  was 
no  denying — he  could  not  help  pursuing  it  so  far  as  to 
entertain  within  himself  a  picture  of  what  his  condition 
would  be,  if  he  should  discover  such  an  imposture  when  he 
was  grown  old.  Whether  a  man  so  situated  would  be  able 
to  pluck  away  the  result  of  so  many  years  of  usage,  confi- 
dence, and  belief,  from  the  impostor,  and  endow  a  stranger 
with  it  ? 

As  his  unusual  emotion  subsided,  these  misgivings  gradu- 
ally melted  away,  though  so  much  of  their  shadow  remained 
behind,  that  he  was  constant  in  his  resolution  to  look 
closely  after  Richards  himself,  without  appearing  to  do  so. 
Being  now  in  an  easier  frame  of  mind,  he  regarded  the 
woman's    station  as  rather  an  advantageous    circumstance 


28  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

than  otherwise,  by  placing,  in  itself,  a  broad  distance 
between  her  and  the  child,  and  rendering  their  separation 
easy  and  natural. 

Meanwhile  terms  were  ratified  and  agreed  upon  between 
Mrs.  Chick  and  Richards,  with  the  assistance  of  Miss  Tox  ; 
and  Richards  being  with  much  ceremony  invested  with  the 
Dombey  baby,  as  if  it  were  an  Order,  resigned  her  own,  with 
many  tears  and  kisses,  to  Jemima.  Glasses  of  wine  were 
then  produced,  to  sustain  the  drooping  spirits  of  the 
family. 

"  You'll  take  a  glass  yourself,  sir,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Miss 
Tox,  as  Toodle  appeared. 

"  Thankee,  mum,"  said  Toodle,  "  since  you  are  suppress- 
ing." 

"  And  you're  very  glad  to  leave  your  dear  good  wife  in 
such  a  comfortable  home,  ain't  you,  sir  ? "  said  Miss  Tox, 
nodding  and  winking  at  him  stealthily. 

"  No,  mum,"  said  Toodle.  "  Here's  wishing  of  her  back 
agin." 

Polly  cried  more  than  ever  at  this.  So  Mrs.  Chick,  who 
had  her  matronly  apprehensions  that  this  indulgence  in  grief 
might  be  prejudicial  to  the  little  Dombey  (''acid,  indeed," 
she  whispered  Miss  Tox),  hastened  to  the  rescue. 

"  Your  little  child  will  thrive  charmingly  with  your  sister 
Jemima,  Richards,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  and  you  have  only 
to  make  an  effort — this  is  a  world  of  effort,  you  know,  Rich- 
ards— to  be  very  happy  indeed.  You  have  been  already 
measured  for  your  mourning,  haven't  you,  Richards  ?  " 

"  Ye — es,  ma'am,"  sobbed  Polly. 

"  And  it'll  fit  beautifully,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  for 
the  same  young  person  has  made  me  many  dresses.  The 
very  best  materials,  too  !  " 

''  Lor,  you'll  be  so  smart,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  your 
husband  won't  know  you  ;  will  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  should  know  her,"  said  Toodle,  gruffly,  "  anyhows 
and  anywheres." 

Toodle  was  evidently  not  to  be  bought  over. 

"  As  to  living,  Richards,  you  know,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick, 
"  why  the  very  best  of  every  thing  will  be  at  your  disposal. 
You  will  order  your  little  dinner  every  day  ;  and  any  thing 
you  take  a  fancy  to,  I'm  sure  will  be  as  readily  provided  as 
if  you  were  a  lady." 

"Yes,  to  be  sure!  "  said  Miss  Tox,  keeping  up  the  ball 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  29 

with  great  sympathy.  "  And  as  to  porter  ? — quite  unlim- 
ited, will  it  not,  Louisa  ?  "    y 

"  Oh,  certainly  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Chick  in  the  same  tone. 
"  With  a  little  abstinence,  you  know,  my  dear,  in  point  of 
vegetables." 

"  And  pickles,  perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  With  such  exceptions,"  said  Louisa,  "  she'll  consult  her 
choice  entirely,  and  be  under  no  restraint  at  all,  my  love." 

"  And  then,  of  course,  you  know,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  how- 
ever fond  she  is  of  her  own  dear  little  child — and  I'm  sure, 
Louisa,  you  don't  blame  her  for  being  fond  of  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  benignantly. 

"  Still,"  resumed  Miss  Tox,  "  she  naturally  must  be  inter- 
ested in  her  young  charge,  and  must  consider  it  a  privilege 
to  see  a  little  cherub  closely  connected  with  the  superior 
classes,  gradually  unfolding  itself  from  day  to  day  at  one 
common  fountain.     Is  it  not  so,  Louisa  ?  " 

"  Most  undoubtedly  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  You  see,  my 
love,  she's  already  quite  contented  and  comfortable,  and 
means  to  say  good-by  to  her  sister  Jemima  and  her  little 
pets,  and  her  good  honest  husband,  with  a  light  heart  and  a 
smile  ;  don't  she,  my  dear  !  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox,  ''to  be  sure  she  does  !  " 

Notwithstanding  which,  however,  poor  Polly  embraced 
them  all  round  in  great  distress,  and  finally  ran  away  to 
avoid  any  more  particular  leave-taking  between  herself  and 
the  children.  But  the  stratagem  hardly  succeeded  as  well 
as  it  deserved  ;  for  the  smallest  boy  but  one  divining  her 
intent,  immediately  began  swarming  up  stairs  after  her — if 
that  word  of  doubtful  etymology  be  admissible — on  his  arms 
and  legs  ;  while  the  eldest  (known  in  the  family  by  the  name 
of  Biler,  in  remembrance  of  the  steam-engine)  beat  a 
demoniacal  tattoo  with  his  boots,  expressive  of  grief  ;  in 
which  he  was  joined  by  the  rest  of  the  family. 

A  quantity  of  oranges  and  half-pence  thrust  indiscrimin- 
ately on  each  young  Toodle,  checked  the  first  violence  of 
their  regret,  and  the  family  were  speedily  transported  to 
their  own  home,  by  means  of  the  hackney-coach  kept  in 
waiting  for  that  purpose.  The  children,  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  Jemima,  blocked  up  the  window,  and  dropped  out 
oranges  and  half-pence  all  the  way  along.  Mr.  Toodle  him- 
self preferred  to  ride  behind  am.ong  the  spikes,  as  being  the 
mode  of  conveyance  to  which  he  was  best  accustomed. 


^ 


30  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  WHICH  MR.  DOMBEY,  AS  A  MAN    AND  A  FATHER,  IS  SEEN  AT 
THE    HEAD    OF   THE  HOME  DEPARTMENT. 

The  funeral  of  the  deceased  lady  having  been  "  performed" 
to  the  entire  satisfaction  of  the  undertaker,  as  well  as  of  the 
neighborhood  at  large,  which  is  generally  disposed  to  be 
captious  on  such  a  point,  and  is  prone  to  take  offense  at  any 
omissions  or  shortcomings  in  the  ceremonies,  the  various 
members  of  Mr.  Dombey's  household  subsided  into  their 
several  places  in  the  domestic  system.  That  small  world, 
like  the  great  one  out-of-doors,  had  the  capacity  of  easily  for- 
getting its  dead  ;  and  when  the  cook  had  said  she  was  a 
quiet-tempered  lady,  and  the  housekeeper  had  said  it  was 
the  common  lot,  and  the  butler  had  said  who'd  have  thought 
it,  and  the  house-maid  had  said  she  couldn't  hardly  believe 
it,  and  the  footman  had  said  it  seemed  exactly  like  a  dream, 
they  had  quite  worn  the  subject  out,  and  began  to  think 
their  mourning  was  wearing  rusty  too. 

On  Richards,  who  was  established  up  stairs  in  a  state  of 
honorable  captivity,  the  dawn  of  her  new  life  seemed  to 
break  cold  and  gray.  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was  a  large  one, 
on  the  shady  side  of  a  tall,  dark,  dreadfully  genteel  street  in 
the  region  between  Portland  Place  and  Bryanstone  Square. 
It  was  a  corner  house,  with  great  wide  areas  containing  cel- 
lars frowned  upon  by  barred  windows,  and  leered  at  by 
crooked-eyed  doors  leading  to  dust  bins.  It  was  a  house 
of  dismal  state,  with  a  circular  back  to  it,  containing  a  whole 
suit  of  drawing  rooms  looking  upon  a  graveled  yard,  where 
two  gaunt  trees,  with  blackened  trunks  and  branches,  rattled 
rather  than  rustled,  their  leaves  were  so  smoke-dried.  The 
summer  sun  was  never  on  the  street,  but  in  the  morning 
about  breakfast  time,  when  it  came  with  the  water-carts  and 
the  old-clothes-men,  and  the  people  with  geraniums,  and  the 
umbrella-mender,  and  the  man  who  trilled  the  little  bell  of 
the  Dutch  clock  as  he  went  along.  It  was  soon  gone  again 
to  return  no  more  that  day  ;  and  the  bands  of  music  and 
the  straggling  Punch's  shows  going  after  it,  left  it  a  prey  to 
the  most  dismal  of  organs,  and  white  mice  ;  with  now  and 
then  a  porcupine,  to  vary  the  entertainments  ;  until  the 
butlers,  whose  families  were  dining   out,  began  to  stand  at 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  31 

the  house-doors  in  the  twiUght,  and  the  lamp-lighter  made 
his  nightly  failure  in  attempting  to  brighten  up  the  street 
with  gas. 

It  was  as  blank  a  house  inside  as  outside.  When  the 
funeral  was  over,  Mr.  Dombey  ordered  the  furniture  to  be 
covered  up — perhaps  to  preserve  it  for  the  son  with  whom 
his  plans  were  all  associated — and  the  rooms  to  be  ungar- 
nished,  saving  such  as  he  retained  for  himself  on  the  ground 
floor.  Accordingly,  mysterious  shapes  were  made  of  tables 
and  chairs,  heaped  together  in  the  middle  of  rooms,  and 
covered  over  with  great  winding-sheets.  Bell-handles,  win- 
dow-blinds, and  looking-glasses,  being  papered  up  in  journals, 
daily  and  weekly,  obtruded  fragmentary  accounts  of  deaths 
and  dreadful  murders.  Every  chandelier  or  luster,  muffled 
in  holland,  looked  like  a  monstrous  tear  depending  from  the 
ceiling's  eye.  Odors,  as  from  vaults  and  damp  places, 
came  out  of  the  chimneys.  The  dead  and  buried  lady  was 
awful  in  a  picture-frame  of  ghastly  bandages.  Every  gust 
of  wind  that  rose,  brought  eddying  round  the  corner  from 
the  neighboring  mews,  some  fragments  of  the  straw  that  had 
been  strewn  before  the  house  when  she  was  ill,  mildewed 
remains  of  which  were  still  cleaving  to  the  neighborhood  ; 
and  these,  being  always  drawn  by  some  invisible  attraction 
to  the  threshold  of  the  dirty  house  to  let  immediately  oppo- 
site, addressed  a  dismal  eloquence  to  Mr.  Dombey's  windows. 

The  apartments  which  jMr.  Dombey  reserved  for  his  own 
inhabiting,  were  attainable  from  the  hall,  and  consisted  of  a 
sitting-room  ;  a  library,  which  was  in  fact  a  dressing  room, 
so  that  the  smell  of  hot-pressed  paper,  vellum,  morocco,  and 
Russia  leather,  contended  in  it  with  the  smell  of  divers  pairs 
of  boots  ;  and  a  kind  of  conservatory  or  little  glass  break- 
fast-room beyond,  commanding  a  prospect  of  the  trees  before 
mentioned,  and  generally  speaking,  of  a  few  prowling  cats. 
These  three  rooms  opened  upon  one  another.  In  the 
morning,  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  at  his  breakfast  in  one  or 
other  of  the  two  first-mentioned  of  them,  as  well  as  in  the 
afternoon  when  he  came  home  to  dinner,  a  bell  was  rung 
for  Richards  to  repair  to  this  glass  chamber,  and  there  walk 
to  and  fro  with  her  young  charge.  From  the  glimpses  she 
caught  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  these  times,  sitting  in  the  dark 
distance,  looking  out  toward  the  infant  from  among  the 
dark  heavy  furniture — the  house  had  been  inhabited  for 
years  by  his  father,  and  in  many  of   its  appointments  was 


32  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

old-fashioned  and  grim — she  began  to  entertain  ideas  of 
him  in  his  soHtary  state,  as  if  he  were  a  lone  prisoner  in  a 
cell,  or  a  strange  apparition  that  was  not  to  be  accosted  or 
understood. 

Little  Paul  Dombey's  foster-mother  had  led  this  life  her- 
self, and  had  carried  little  Paul  through  it  for  some  weeks  ; 
and  had  returned  up  stairs  one  day  from  a  melancholy  saun- 
ter through  the  dreary  rooms  of  state  (she  never  went  out 
without  Mrs.  Chick,  who  called  on  fine  mornings,  usually 
accompanied  by  Miss  Tox,  to  take  her  and  baby  for  an  air- 
ing— or,  in  other  words,  to  march  them  gravely  up  and  down 
the  pavement  ;  like  a  walking  funeral)  ;  when,  as  she  was 
sitting  in  her  own  room,  the  door  was  slowly  and  quietly 
opened,  and  a  dark-eyed  little  girl  looked  in. 

"  It's  Miss  Florence  come  home  from  her  aunt's,  no 
doubt,"  thought  Richards,  who  had  never  seen  the  child 
before.     "  Hope  I  see  you  well,  miss." 

"  Is  that  my  brother  ?  "  asked  the  child,  pointing  to  the 
baby. 

"  Yes,  my  pretty,"  answered  Richards.  "  Come  and  kiss 
him." 

But  the  child,  instead  of  advancing,  looked  her  earnestly 
in  the  face,  and  said  : 

"  What  have  you  done  with  my  mamma  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  the  little  creetur  !  "  cried  Richards,  "  what  a 
sad  question  !  I  done  ?  Nothing,  miss." 

"  What  have  t^ey  done  with  my  mamma  ?  "  inquired  the 
child. 

''  I  never  saw  such  a  melting  thing  in  all  my  life  !  "  said 
Richards,  who  naturally  substituted  for  this  child  one  of  her 
own,  inquiring  for  herself  in  like  circumstances.  "  Come 
nearer  here,  my  dear  miss  !  Don't  be  afraid  of  me." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,"  said  the  child,  drawing  nearer. 
"  But  I  want  to  know  what  they  have  done  with  my  mamma." 

"  My  darling,"  said  Richards,  "  you  wear  that  pretty  black 
frock  in  remembrance  of  your  mamma." 

"  I  can  remember  my  mamma,"  returned  the  child,  with 
tears  springing  to  her  eyes,  "in  any  frock." 

"  But  people  put  on  black,  to  remember  people  when 
they're  gone." 

"  Where  gone  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

"Come  and  sit  down  by  me,"  said  Richards,  "and  I'll 
tell  you  a  story." 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  S3 

With  a  quick  perception  that  it  was  intended  to  relate  to 
what  she  had  asked,  Httle  Florence  laid  aside  the  bonnet  she 
had  held  in  her  hand  until  now,  and  sat  down  on  a  stool  at 
the  nurse's  feet,  looking  up  into  her  face. 

"  Once  upon  a  time,"  said  Richards,  "  there  was  a  lady — a 
very  good  lady,  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved  her." 

"  A  very  good  lady  and  her  little  daughter  dearly  loved 
her,"  repeated  the  child. 

"  Who,  when  God  thought  it  right  that  it  should  be  so, 
was  taken  ill  and  died." 

The  child  shuddered. 

"  Died,  never  to  be  seen  again  by  any  one  on  earth,  and 
Was  buried  in  the  ground  where  the  trees  grow." 

"  The  cold  ground  ?  "  said  the  child,  shuddering   again. 

"  No  !  The  warm  ground,"  returned  Polly,  seizing  her 
advantage,  "  where  the  ugly  little  seeds  turn  into  beautiful 
flowers,  and  into  grass,  and  corn,  and  I  don't  know  what  all 
besides.  Where  good  people  turn  into  bright  angels,  and  fly 
away  to  Heaven  !  " 

The  child,  who  had  drooped  her  head,  raised  it  again,  and 
sat  looking  at  her  intently. 

"  So  ;  let  me  see,"  said  Polly,  not  a  little  flurried  between 
this  earnest  scrutiny,  her  desire  to  comfort  the  child,  her  sud- 
den success,  and  her  very  slight  confidence  in  her  own 
powers.  "  So,  when  this  lady  died,  wherever  they  took  her, 
or  wherever  they  put  her,  she  went  to  God  !  and  she  prayed 
to  Him,  this  lady  did,"  said  Polly,  affecting  herself  beyond 
measure  ;  being  heartily  in  earnest,  "  to  teach  her  little 
daughter  to  be  sure  of  that  in  her  heart  :  and  to  know  that 
she  was  happy  there  and  loved  her  still  :  and  to  hope  and 
try — oh,  all  her  life — to  meet  her  there  one  day,  never,  never, 
never  to  part  an}'  more." 

"  It  was  my  mamma  !  "  exclaimed  the  child,  springing  up, 
and  clasping  her  round  the  neck. 

"And  the  child's  heart,"  said  Polly,  drawing  her  to  her 
breast  :  "  the  little  daughter's  heart  was  so  full  of  the  truth 
of  this,  that  even  when  she  heard  it  from  a  strange  nurse 
that  couldn't  tell  it  right,  but  was  a  poor  mother  herself, 
and  that  was  all,  she  found  a  comfort  in  it — didn't  feel  so 
lonely — sobbed  and  cried  upon  her  bosom — took  kindly  to 
the  baby  lying  in  her  lap — and — there,  there,  there  I  "  said 
Polly,  smoothing  the  child's  curls  and  dropping  tears  upon 
them.     "  There,  poor  dear  !  " 


34  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Oh  well,  Miss  Floy  !  And  won't  your  pa  be  angry, 
neither  ! "  cried  a  quick  voice  at  the  door,  proceeding  from 
a  short,  brown,  womanly  girl  of  fourteen,  with  a  little  snub 
nose,  and  black  eyes  like  jet  beads.  "  When  it  was  'ticker- 
lerly  given  out  that  you  wasn't  to  go  and  worrit  the  wet-nurse." 

"  She  don't  worry  me,"  was  the  surprised  rejoinder  of 
Polly.     "  I  am  very  fond  of  children." 

"  Oh  !  but  begging  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Richards,  that 
don't  matter,  you  know,"  returned  the  black-eyed  girl,  who 
was  so  desperately  sharp  and  biting  that  she  seemed  to  make 
one's  eyes  water.  "  I  may  be  very  fond  of  penny  winkles, 
Mrs.  Richards,  but  it  don't  follow  that  I'm  to  have  'em  for 
tea." 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Polly. 

*'  Oh,  thank'ee,  Mrs.  Richards,  don't  it  !  "  returned  the 
sharp  girl.  "  Remembering,  however,  if  you'll  be  so  good, 
that  Miss  Floy's  under  my  charge,  and  Master  Paul's  under 
your'n." 

"  But  still  we  needn't  quarrel,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh no,  Mrs.  Richards,"  rejoined  Spitfire.  "Not  at  all, 
I  don't  wish  it,  we  needn't  stand  upon  that  footing.  Miss 
Floy  being  a  permanency.  Master  Paul  a  temporary."  Spit- 
fire made  use  of  none  but  comma  pauses  ;  shooting  out 
whatever  she  had  to  say  in  one  sentence,  and  in  one  breath, 
if  possible. 

"  Miss  Florence  has  just  come  home,  hasn't  she  ?  "  asked 
Polly. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  just  come,  and  here.  Miss  Floy, 
before  you've  been  in  the  house  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  you 
go  a-smearing  your  wet  face  against  the  expensive  mourning 
that  Mrs.  Richards  is  a-wearing  for  your  ma  !  "  With  this 
remonstrance,  young  Spitfire,  whose  real  name  was  Susan 
Nipper,  detached  the  child  from  her  new  friend  by  a  wrench 
— as  if  she  were  a  tooth.  But  she  seemed  to  do  it,  more  in 
the  excessively  sharp  exercise  of  her  official  functions,  than 
with  any  deliberate  unkindness. 

"  She'll  be  quite  happy,  now  she  has  come  home  again," 
said  Polly,  nodding  to  her  with  an  encouraging  smile  upon 
her  wholesome  face,  "  and  will  be  so  pleased  to  see  her  dear 
papa  to-night." 

"  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards  !  "  cried  Miss  Nipper,  taking  up 
her  words  with  a  jerk.  "  Don't.  See  her  dear  papa  indeed  ! 
I  should  like  to  see  her  do  it  !  " 


"^.:?^ 


"I   MAY    BE   VERY    FOND    OF   PENNYWINKLES,    MRS.    RICHARDS,    BUT    IT   DOK't   FOLLOW 
THAT   I'm   to    have   'eM   FOR   TEA." 


•    *  •      • 


DOMEEY  AND   SON.  35 

"  Won't  she  then  ?  "  asked  Polly. 

"  Lork,  Mrs.  Richards,  no,  her  pa's  a  deal  too  wrapped  up 
in  somebody  else,  and  before  there  was  a  somebody  else  to 
be  wrapped  up  in  she  never  was  a  favorite,  girls  are  thrown 
away  in  this  house,  Mrs.   Richards,  /assure  you." 

The  child  looked  quickly  from  one  nurse  to  the  other,  as 
if  she  understood  and  felt  what  was  said. 

*'  You  surprise  me  !  "  cried  Polly.  ''  Hasn't  Mr.  Dombey 
seen  her  since — " 

"  No,"  interrupted  Susan  Nipper.  "  Not  once  since,  and 
he  hadn't  hardly  set  his  eyes  upon  her  before  that  for  months 
and  months,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  have  known  her  for  his 
own  child  if  he  had  met  her  in  the  streets,  or  would  know 
her  for  his  own  child  if  he  was  to  meet  her  in  the  streets  to- 
morrow, Mrs.  Richards,  as  to  ;;z^,"  said  Spitfire,  with  a  giggle, 
*'  I  doubt  if  he's  aweer  of  my  existence." 

"  Pretty  dear  !  "  said  Richards  ;  meaning,  not  Miss  Nip- 
per, but  the  little  Florence. 

"  Oh  !  there's  a  Tartar  within  a  hundred  miles  of  where 
we're  now  in  conversation,  I  can  tell  you,  Mrs.  Richards, 
present  company  always  excepted  too,"  said  Susan  Nipper  ; 
"  wish  you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Richards,  now  Miss  Floy, 
you  come  along  with  me,  and  don't  go  hanging  back  like  a 
naughty  wicked  child  that  judgments  is  no  example  to, 
don't." 

In  spite  of  being  thus  adjured,  and  in  spite  also  of  some 
hauling  on  the  part  of  Susan  Nipper,  tending  toward  the  dis- 
location of  her  right  shoulder,  little  Florence  broke  away, 
and  kissed  her  new  friend,  affectionatelv. 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  the  child.  "  God  bless  you  !  I  shall 
come  to  see  you  again  soon,  and  you'll  come  to  see  me  ? 
Susan  will  let  us.     Won't  you,  Susan  ?  " 

Spitfire  seemed  to  be  in  the  main  a  good-natured  little 
body,  although  a  disciple  of  that  school  of  trainers  of  the 
young  idea  which  holds  that  childhood,  like  money,  must  be 
shaken  and  rattled  and  jostled  about  a  good  deal  to  keep  it 
bright.  For,  being  thus  appealed  to  with  some  endearing 
gestures  and  caresses,  she  folded  h-er  small  arms  and  shook 
her  head,  and  conveyed  a  relenting  expression  into  her  very- 
wide-open  black  eyes. 

"  It  ain't  right  of  you  to  ask  it.  Miss  Floy,  for  you  know 
I  can't  refuse  you,  but  Mrs.  Richards  and  me  will  see  what 
can  be  done,  if  Mrs.  Richards  likes,  I  may  wish,  you  see,  to 


36  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

take  a  voyage  to  Chaney,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  I  mayn't  know 
how  to  leave  the  London  Docks." 

Richards  assented  to  the  proposition. 

**  This  house  ain't  so  exactly  ringing  with  merry-making," 
said  Miss  Nipper,  "  that  one  need  be  lonelier  than  one  must 
be.  Your  Toxes  and  your  Chickses  may  draw  out  my  two 
front  double  teeth,  Mrs.  Richards,  but  that's  no  reason  why 
I  need  offer  'em  the  whole  set." 

This  proposition  was  also  assented  to  by  Richards,  as  an 
obvious  one. 

"  So  I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sure,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  to  live 
friendly,  Mrs.  Richards,  while  Master  Paul  continues  a  per- 
manency, if  the  means  can  be  planned  out  without  going 
openly  against  orders,  but  goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Floy, 
you  haven't  got  your  things  off  yet,  you  naughty  child,  you 
haven't,  come  along  !  " 

With  these  words,  Susan  Nipper,  in  a  transport  of  coercion, 
made  a  charge  at  her  young  ward,  and  swept  her  out  of  the 
room. 

The  child,  in  her  grief  and  neglect,  was  so  gentle,  so 
quiet,  and  uncomplaining  ;  was  possessed  of  so  much  affec- 
tion that  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  have,  and  so  much  sor- 
rowful intelligence  that  no  one  seemed  to  mind  or  think 
about  the  wounding  of  ;  that  Polly's  heart  was  sore  when 
she  was  left  alone  again.  In  the  simple  passage  that  had 
taken  place  between  herself  and  the  motherless  little  girl, 
her  own  motherly  heart  had  been  touched  no  less  than  the 
child's  ;  and  she  felt,  as  the  child  did,  that  there  was  some- 
thing of  confidence  and  interest  between  them  from  that 
moment. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Toodle's  great  reliance  on  Polly,  she 
was  perhaps  in  point  of  artificial  accomplishments  very  little 
his  superior.  But  she  v/as  a  good  plain  sample  of  a  nature 
that  is  ever,  in  the  mass,  better,  truer,  higher,  nobler,  quicker 
to  feel,  and  much  more  constant  to  retain,  all  tenderness  and 
pity,  self-denial  and  devotion,  than  the  nature  of  men.  And, 
perhaps,  unlearned  as  she  was,  she  could  have  brought  a 
dawning  knowledge  home  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  that  early  day, 
which  would  not  then  have  struck  him  in  the  end  like  light- 
ning. 

But  this  is  from  the  purpose.  Polly  only  thought,  at  that 
time,  of  improving  on  her  successful  propitiation  of  Miss 
Nipper,  and  devising  some  means  of  having  little  Florence 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  .  37 

beside  her,  lawfully,  and  without  rebellion.  An  opening 
happened  to  present  itself  that  very  night. 

She  had  been  rung  down  into  the  glass  room  as  usual,  and 
had  walked  about  and  about  it  a  long  time  with  the  baby  in 
her  arms,  when,  to  her  great  surprise  and  dismay,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  came  out,  suddenly,  and  stopped  before  her. 

"  Good-evening,  Richards." 

Just  the  same  austere,  stiff  gentleman,  as  he  had  appeared 
to  her  on  that  first  day.  Such  a  hard-looking  gentleman, 
that  she  involuntarily  dropped  her  eyes  and  her  courtesy  at 
the  same  time. 

"  How  is  Master  Paul,  Richards  ?  " 

"  Quite  thriving,  sir,  and  well." 

"  He  looks  so,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  with  great 
interest  at  the  tiny  face  she  uncovered  for  his  observation, 
and  yet  affecting  to  be  half  careless  of  it.  "  They  give  you 
every  thing  you  want,  I  hope  ?  " 

"Oh  yes,  thank  you,  sir." 

She  suddenly  appended  such  an  obvious  hesitation  to 
this  reply,  however,  that  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  turned 
away,  stopped,  and  turned  round  again,  inquiringly. 

"  I  believe  nothing  is  so  good  for  making  children  lively 
and  cheerful,  sir,  as  seeing  other  children  playing  about 
'em,"  observed  Polly,  taking  courage. 

"  I  think  I  mentioned  to  you,  Richards,  when  you  came 
here,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  frown,  "  that  I  wished  you 
to  see  as  little  of  your  family  as  possible.  You  can  con- 
tinue your  walk,  if  you  please." 

With  that,  he  disappeared  into  his  inner  room  ;  and  Polly 
had  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  thoroughly  mis- 
understood her  object,  and  that  she  had  fallen  into  disgrace 
without  the  least  advancement  of  her  purpose. 

Next  night,  she  found  him  walking  about  the  conserva- 
tory when  she  came  down.  As  she  stopped  at  the  door, 
checked  by  this  unusual  sight,  and  uncertain  whether  to 
advance  or  retreat,  he  called  her  in. 

"  If  you  really  think  that  sort  of  society  is  good  for  the 
child,"  he  said,  sharply,  as  if  there  had  been  no  interval 
since  she  proposed  it,  "  where's  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

"  Nothing  could  be  better  than  Miss  Florence,  sir,"  said 
Polly,  eagerly,  "  but  I  understood  from  her  little  maid  that 
they  were  not  to — " 

Mr.  Dombey  rang  the  bell,  and  walked  till  it  was  answered. 


38  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Tell  them  always  to  let  Miss  Florence  be  with  Richards 
when  she  chooses,  and  go  out  with  her,  and  so  forth.  Tell 
them  to  let  the  children  be  together,  when  Richards  wishes 

it." 

The  iron  was  now  hot,  and  Richards  striking  on  it  boldly 
— it  was  a  good  cause  and  she  was  bold  in  it,  though 
instinctively  afraid  of  Mr.  Dombey— requested  that  Miss 
Florence  might  be  sent  down  then  and  there,  to  make  friends 
with  her  little  brother. 

She  feigned  to  be  dandling  the  child  as  the  servant 
retired  on  this  errand,  but  she  thought  that  she  saw  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  color  changed  ;  that  the  expression  of  his  face  quite 
altered  ;  that  he  turned,  hurriedly,  as  if  to  gainsay  what  he 
had  said,  or  she  had  said,  or  both,  and  was  only  deterred  by 
very  shame. 

And  she  was  right.  The  last  time  he  had  seen  his  slighted 
child,  there  had  been  that  in  the  sad  embrace  between  her 
and  her  dying  mother,  which  was  at  once  a  revelation  and 
a  reproach  to  him.  Let  him  be  absorbed  as  he  would  in  the 
son  on  whom  he  built  such  high  hopes,  he  could  not  forget 
that  closing  scene.  He  could  not  forget  that  he  had  had  no 
part  in  it.  That,  at  the  bottom  of  its  clear  depths  of  ten- 
derness and  truth,  lay  those  two  figures  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms,  while  he  stood  on  the  bank  above  them,  look- 
ing down  a  mere  spectator — not  a  sharer  with  them — quite 
shut  out. 

Unable  to  exclude  these  things  from  his  remembrance,  or 
to  keep  his  mind  free  from  such  imperfect  shapes  of  the 
meaning  with  which  they  were  fraught,  as  were  able  to  make 
themselves  visible  to  him  through  the  mist  of  his  pride,  his 
previous  feelings  of  indifference  toward  little  Florence 
changed  into  an  uneasiness  of  an  extraordinary  kind.  He 
almost  felt  as  if  she  watched  and  distrusted  him.  As  if  she 
held  the  clew  to  something  secret  in  his  breast,  of  the  nature 
of  which  he  was  hardly  informed  himself.  As  if  she  had  an 
innate  knowledge  of  one  jarring  and  discordant  string  within 
him,  and  her  very  breath  could  sound  it. 

His  feeling  about  the  child  had  been  negative  from  her 
birth.  He  had  never  conceived  an  aversion  to  her  :  it  had 
not  been  worth  his  while  or  in  his  humor.  She  had  never 
been  a  positively  disagreeable  object  to  him.  But  now  he 
was  ill  at  ease  about  her.  She  troubled  his  peace.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  put  her  idea  aside  altogether,  if  he 


DOMBEY   AND   SON. 


39 


had  known  how.  Perhaps — who  shall  decide  on  such  mys- 
teries ! — he  was  afraid  that  he  might  come  to  hate  her. 

When  little  Florence  timidly  presented  herself,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down  and  looked  toward 
her.  Had  he  looked  with  greater  interest  and  with  a  father's 
eye,  he  might  have  read  in  her  keen  glance  the  impulses  and 
fears  that  made  her  waver  ;  the  passionate  desire  to  run 
clinging  to  him,  crying,  as  she  hid  her  face  in  his  embrace, 
"  Oh,  father,  try  to  love  me  !  there's  no  one  else  !  "  the  dread 
of  a  repulse  ;  the  fear  of  being  too  bold,  and  of  offending 
him  ;  the  pitiable  need  in  which  she  stood  of  some  assurance 
and  encouragement  ;  and  how  her  overcharged  young  heart 
was  wandering  to  find  some  natural  resting-place,  for  its  sor^ 
row  and  affection. 

But  he  saw  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  her  pause  irresolutely 
at  the  door  and  look  toward  him  ;  and  he  saw  no  more. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  come  in  :  w^hat  is  the  child  afraid 
of?" 

She  came  in  ;  and  after  glancing  round  her  for  a  moment 
with  an  uncertain  air,  stood  pressing  her  small  hands  hard 
together,  close  within  the  door. 

"  Come  here,  Florence,"  said  her  father,  coldly.  "  Do  you 
know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  Yes,  papa." 

"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

The  tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes  as  she  raised  them  quickly 
to  his  face,  were  frozen  by  the  expression  it  wore.  She 
looked  down  again,  and  put  out  her  trembling  hand. 

Mr.  Dombey  took  it  loosely  in  his  own,  and  stood  looking 
down  upon  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  he  knevv^  as  little  as  the 
child,  what  to  say  or  do. 

"  There  !  Be  a  good  girl,"  he  said,  patting  her  on  the 
head,  and  regarding  her  as  it  were  by  stealth  with  a  dis- 
turbed and  doubtful  look.     "  Go  to  Richards  !     Go  !  " 

His  little  daughter  hesitated  for  another  instant  as  though 
she  would  have  clung  about  him  still,  or  had  some  lingering 
hope  that  he  might  raise  her  in  his  arms  and  kiss  her.  She 
looked  up  in  his  face  once  more.  He  thought  how  like  her 
expression  was  then,  to  what  it  had  been  when  she  looked 
round  at  the  doctor — that  night — and  instinctively  dropped 
her  hand  and  turned  away. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  perceive  that  Florence  was  at  a 
great  disadvantage  in  her  father's  presence.     It  was  not  only 


40  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

a  constraint  upon  the  child's  mind,  but  even  upon  the  nat- 
ural grace  and  freedom  of  her  actions.  Still  Polly  perse- 
vered with  all  the  better  heart  for  seeing  this  ;  and,  judging 
of  Mr.  Dombey  by  herself,  had  great  confidence  in  the  mute 
appeal  of  poor  little  Florence's  mourning  dress.  "  It's  hard 
indeed,"  thought  Polly,  "if  he  takes  only  to  one  little 
motherless  child,  when  he  has  another,  and  that  a  girl,  before 
his  eyes." 

So,  Polly  kept  her  before  his  eyes,  as  long  as  she  could,  and 
managed  so  well  with  little  Paul,  as  to  make  it  very  plain 
that  he  was  all  the  livelier  for  his  sister's  company.  When 
it  was  time  to  withdraw  up  stairs  again,  she  would  have  sent 
Florence  into  the  inner  room  to  say  good-night  to  her  father, 
but  the  child  was  timid  and  drew  back:  and  when  she  urged 
her  again,  said,  spreading  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  as  if  to 
shut  out  her  own  unworthiness,  "  Oh  no,  no  !  He  don't  want 
me.     He  don't  want  me  !  " 

The  little  altercation  between  them  had  attracted  the 
notice  of  Mr.  Dombey,  who  inquired  from  the  table  where 
he  was  sitting  at  his  wine,  what  the  matter  was. 

"  Miss  Florence  was  afraid  of  interrupting,  sir,  if  she  came 
in  to  say  good-night,"  said  Richards. 

"  It  doesn't  matter,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  You  can 
let  her  come  and  go  v/ithout  regarding  me." 

The  child  shrunk  as  she  listened— and  was  gone,  before 
her  humble  friend  looked  round  again. 

However,  Polly  triumphed  not  a  Uttle  in  the  success  of 
her  well-intentioned  scheme,  and  in  the  address  with  which 
she  had  brought  it  to  bear  :  whereof  she  made  a  full  disclos- 
ure to  Spitfire  when  she  was  once  more  safely  intrenched  up 
stairs.  Miss  Nipper  received  that  proof  of  her  confidence, 
as  well  as  the  prospect  of  their  free  association  for  the  future, 
rather  coldly,  and  was  any  thing  but  enthusiastic  in  her  dem- 
onstrations of  joy. 

"  I  thought  you  would  have  been  pleased,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  I'm  very  well  pleased,  thank 
you,"  returned  Susan,  who  had  suddenly  become  so  very 
upright  that  she  seemed  to  have  put  an  additional  bone  in 
her  stays. 

''  You  don't  show  it,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  Being  only  a  permanency  I  couldn't  be  expected 
to  show  it  like  a  temporary,"  said  Susan  Nipper.  "  Tempo- 
raries carries  it  all  before  'em  here,  I  find,  but  though  there's 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  41 

a  excellent  party-wall  between  this  house  and  the  next,  I 
mayn't  exactly  like  to  go  to  it,  Mrs.  Richards,  notwithstand- 
ing !  " 

CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  WHICH  SOME  MORE  FIRST  APPEARANCES  ARE    MADE   ON  THE 
STAGE  OF  THESE  ADVENTURES. 

Though  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  were  within  the 
liberties  of  the  city  of  London,  and  within  hearing  of  Bow 
Bells,  when  their  clashing  voices  were  not  drowned  by  the 
uproar  in  the  streets,  yet  were  there  hints  of  adventurous  and 
romantic  story  to  be  observed  in  some  of  the  adjacent 
objects.  Gog  and  Magog  held  their  state  within  ten  min- 
utes' walk  ;  the  Royal  Exchange  was  close  at  hand  ;  the 
Bank  of  England,  with  its  vaults  of  gold  and  silver  "  down 
among  the  dead  men  "  under-ground,  was  their  magnificent 
neighbor.  Just  round  the  corner  stood  the  rich  East  India 
House,  teeming  with  suggestions  of  precious  stuff  and  stones, 
tigers,  elephants,  howdahs,  hookahs,  umbrellas,  palm-trees, 
palanquins,  and  gorgeous  princes  of  a  brown  complexion  sit- 
ting on  carpets,  with  their  slippers  very  much  turned  up  at 
the  toes.  Anywhere  in  the  immediate  vicinity  there  might 
be  seen  pictures  of  ships  speeding  away  full  sail  to  all  parts 
of  the  world,  outfitting  warehouses  ready  to  pack  off  any 
body  anywhere,  fully  equipped  in  half  an  hour  ;  and  little 
timber  midshipmen  in  obsolete  naval  uniforms,  eternally 
employed  outside  the  shop-doors  of  nautical  instrument- 
makers  in  taking  observations  of  the  hackney-coaches. 

Sole  master  and  proprietor  of  one  of  these  effigies — of  that 
which  might  be  called,  familiarly,  the  woodenest — of  that 
which  thrust  itself  out  above  the  pavement,  right  leg  fore- 
most, with  a  suavity  the  least  endurable,  and  had  the  shoe- 
buckles  and  flapped  waistcoat  the  least  reconcilable  to 
human  reason,  and  bore  at  its  right  eye  the  most  offensively 
disproportionate  piece  of  machinery — sole  master  and  pro- 
prietor of  that  midshipman,  and  proud  of  him  too,  an  elderly 
gentleman,  in  a  Welsh  wig,  had  paid  house-rent,  taxes  and 
dues,  for  more  years  than  many  a  full-grown  midshipman 
of  flesh  and  blood  has  numbered  in  his  life  ;  and  mid- 
shipmen who  have  attained  a  pretty  green  old  age,  have  not 
been  wanting  in  the  English  navy. 


42  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

The  stock  in  trade  of  this  old  gentleman  comprised  chro- 
nometers, barometers,  telescopes,  compasses,  charts,  maps, 
sextants,  quadrants,  and  specimens  of  every  kind  of  instru- 
ment used  in  the  working  of  a  ship's  course,  or  the  keeping 
of  a  ship's  reckoning,  or  the  prosecuting  of  a  ship's  dis- 
coveries. Objects  in  brass  and  glass  were  in  his  drawers 
and  on  his  shelves,  which  none  but  the  initiated  could  have 
found  the  top  of,  or  guessed  the  use  of,  or  having  once 
examined,  could  have  ever  got  back  again  into  their 
mahogany  nests  without  assistance.  Every  thing  was 
jammed  into  the  tightest  cases,  fitted  into  the  narrowest 
corners,  fenced  up  behind  the  most  impertinent  cushions, 
and  screwed  into  the  acutest  angles,  to  prevent  its  philosoph- 
ical composure  from  being  disturbed  by  the  rolling  of  the 
sea.  Such  extraordinary  precautions  were  taken  in  every 
instance  to  save  room,  and  keep  the  thing  compact  ;  and  so 
much  practical  navigation  was  fitted,  and  cushioned,  and 
screwed  into  every  box  (whether  the  box  was  a  mere  slab,  as 
some  were,  or  something  between  a  cocked  hat  and  a  star- 
fish, as  others  were,  and  those  quite  mild  and  modest  boxes 
as  compared  with  others)  ;  that  the  shop  itself,  partaking  of 
the  general  infection,  seemed  almost  to  become  a  snug,  sea- 
going ship-shape  concern,  wanting  only  good  sea-room,  in 
the  event  of  an  unexpected  launch,  ^to  work  its  way  securely 
to  any  desert  island  in  the  world. 

Many  minor  incidents  in  the  household  life  of  the  Ships' 
Instrument-maker,  who  was  proud  of  his  little  midshipman, 
assisted  and  bore  out  this  fancy.  His  acquaintance  lying 
chiefly  among  ship-chandlers,  and  so  forth,  he  had  always 
plenty  of  the  veritable  ships'  biscuit  on  his  table.  It  was 
familiar  with  dried  meats  and  tongues,  possessing  an  extra- 
ordinary flavor  of  rope-yarn.  Pickles  were  produced  upon 
it,  in  great  wholesale  jars,  with  "  dealer  in  all  kinds  of  Ships* 
Provisions"  on  the  label ;  spirits  were  set  forth  in  case  bot- 
tles with  no  throats.  Old  prints  of  ships,  with  alphabetical 
references  to  their  various  mysteries,  hung  in  frames  upon 
the  walls  ;  the  Tartar  Frigate  under  weigh,  was  on  the  plates; 
outlandish  shells,  sea-weeds,  and  mosses,  decorated  the 
chimney-piece  ;  the  little  wainscoted  back  parlor  was  lighted 
by  a  sky-light,  like  a  cabin. 

Here  he  lived  too,  in  skipper-like  state,  all  alone  with  his 
nephew,  Walter  :  a  boy  of  fourteen,  who  looked  quite  enough 
lik.e  a  midshipman  to  carry  out  the  prevailing  idea.     But 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  43 

there  it  ended,  for  Solomon  Gills  himself  (more  generally 
called  Old  Sol)  was  far  from  having  a  maritime  appearance. 
To  say  nothing  of  his  Welsh  wig,  which  was  as  plain  and 
stubborn  a  Welsh  wig  as  ever  was  v/orn,  and  in  which  he 
looked  like  any  thing  but  a  Rover,  he  was  a  slow,  quiet-spoken, 
thoughtful  old  fellow,  with  eyes  as  red  as  if  they  had  been 
small  suns  looking  at  you  through  a  fog  ;  and  a  newly- 
awakerfed  manner,  such  as  he  might  have  acquired  by  hav- 
ing stared  for  three  or  four  days  successively  through  every 
optical  instrument  in  his  shop,  and  suddenly  came  back  to 
the  world  again,  to  find  it  green.  The  only  change  ever 
known  in  his  outward  man,  was  from  a  complete  suit  of  cof- 
fee-color cut  very  square,  and  ornamented  with  glaring  but- 
tons, to  the  same  suit  of  coffee-color  minus  the  inexpress- 
ibles, which  were  then  of  a  pale  nankeen.  He  wore  a  very 
precise  shirt-frill,  and  carried  a  pair  of  first-rate  spectacles 
on  his  forehead,  and  a  tremendous  chronometer  in  his  fob, 
rather  than  doubt  which  precious  possession,  he  would  have 
believed  in  a  conspiracy  against  it  on  the  part  of  all  the 
clocks  and  watches  in  the  city,  and  even  of  the  very  sun 
itself.  Such  as  he  was,  such  he  had  been  in  the  shop  and 
parlor  behind  the  little  midshipman,  for  years  upon  years  ; 
going  regularly  aloft  to  bed  every  night  in  a  howling  garret 
remote  from  the  lodgers,  where,  when  gentlem.en  of  England 
who  lived  below  at  ease  had  little  or  no  idea  of  the  state  of 
the  weather,  it  often  blew  great  guns. 

It  is  half-past  five  o'clock,  and  an  autumn  afternoon, 
when  the  reader  and  Solomon  Gills  become  acquainted. 
Solomon  Gills  is  in  the  act  of  seeing  what  time  it  is  by  the 
unimpeachable  chronometer.  The  usual  daily  clearance  has 
been  making  in  the  city  for  an  hour  or  more  ;  and  the 
human  tide  is  still  rolling  westward.  "  The  streets  have 
thinned,"  as  Mr.  Gill  says,  "  very  much."  It  threatens  to 
be  wet  to-night.  All  the  weather-glasses  in  the  shop  are  in 
low  spirits,  and  the  rain  already  shines  upon  the  cocked  hat 
of  the  wooden  midshipman. 

"  Where's  Walter,  I  wonder  !  "  said  Solomon  Gills,  after 
he  had  carefully  put  up  the  chronometer  again.  "  Here's 
dinner  been  ready,  half  an  hour,  and  no  Walter  !  " 

Turning  round  upon  his  stool  behind  the  counter,  Mr. 
Gills  looked  out  among  the  instruments  in  the  window,  to 
see  if  his  nephew  might  be  crossing  the  road.  No.  He  was 
not  among  the  bobbing  umbrellas,  and  he  certainly  was  not 


44  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  newspaper  boy  in  the  oil-skin  cap  who  was  slowly  work- 
ing his  way  along  'the  piece  of  brass  outside,  writing  his 
name  over  Mr.  Gills's  name  with  his  forefinger. 

"  If  I  didn't  know  he  was  too  fond  of  me  to  make  a  run  of 
it,  and  go  and  enter  himself  aboard  ship  against  my  wishes, 
I  should  begin  to  be  fidgety,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  tapping  two  or 
three  weather-glasses  with  his  knuckles.  "  I  really  should. 
All  in  the  Downs,  eh  !  Lots  of  moisture  !  Well  !  it's 
wanted." 

"  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  blowing  the  dust  off  the  glass 
top  of  a  compass  case,  "  that  you  don't  point  more  direct 
and  due  to  the  back  parlor  than  the  boy's  inclination  does 
after  all.  And  the  parlor  couldn't  bear  straighter  either. 
Due  north.     Not  the  twentieth  part  of  a  point  either  way." 

"  Halloo,  Uncle  Sol  !  " 

"  Halloo,  my  boy  !  "  cried  the  instrument-maker,  turning 
briskly  round.     "  What  !  you  are  here,  are  you  !  " 

A  cheerful  looking,  merry  boy,  fresh  with  running  home 
in  the  rain  ;  fair-faced,  bright-eyed,  and  curly-haired. 

"  Well,  uncle,  how  have  you  got  on  without  me  all  day  ! 
Is  dinner  ready  ?     I'm  so  hungry." 

**  As  to  getting  on,"  said  Solomon,  good-naturedly,  "  it 
would  be  odd  if  I  couldn't  get  on  without  a  young  dog  like 
you  a  great  deal  better  than  with  you.  As  to  dinner  being 
ready,  it's  been  ready  this  half  hour  and  waiting  for  you. 
As  to  being  hungry,  /  am  !  " 

"  Come  along  then,  uncle  !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah 
for  the  admiral  !  " 

"  Confound  the  admiral  ! "  returned  Solomon  Gills. 
"  You  mean  the  Lord  Mayor." 

"  No,  I  don't  !  "  cried  the  boy.  "  Hurrah  for  the  admiral. 
Hurrah  for  the  admiral  !     For — ward  !  " 

At  this  word  of  command,  the  Welsh  wig  and  its  wearer 
were  borne  without  resistance  into  the  back  parlor,  as  at  the 
head  of  a  boarding  party  of  five  hundred  men  ;  and  Uncle 
Sol  and  his  nephew  were  speedily  engaged  on  a  fried  sole 
with  a  prospect  of  steak  to  follow. 

"  The  Lord  Mayor,  Wally,"  said  Solomon,  "  forever  !  No 
more  admirals.     The  Lord  MB.yors your  admiral." 

"  Oh,  is  he  though  !  "  said  the  boy,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Why,  the  Sword  Bearer's  better  than  him.  He  draws  /it's 
sword  sometimes." 

"  And  a   pretty  figure  he   cuts  with  it  for    his    pains," 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  45 

returned  the  uncle.  "  Listen  to  me,  Wally,  listen  to  me. 
Look  on  the  mantle-shelf." 

"  Why  who  has  cocked  my  silver  mug  up  there,  on  a 
nail  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy. 

"  I  have,"  said  his  uncle.  "  No  more  mugs  now.  We 
must  begin  to  drink  out  of  glasses  to-day,  W^alter.  We  are 
men  of  business.  We  belong  to  the  City.  We  started  in 
life  this  morning." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  "  I'll  drink  out  of  any  thing 
you  like,  so  long  as  I  can  drink  to  you.  Here's  to  you. 
Uncle  Sol,  and  hurrah  for  the — " 

"  Lord  Mayor,"  interrupted  the  old  man. 

"  For  the  Lord  Mayor,  Sheriffs,  Common  Council,  and 
Livery,"  said  the  boy.     "  Long  life  to  'em  !  " 

The  uncle  nodded  his  head  with  great  satisfaction. 
"And  now,"  he  said,  "  let's  hear  something  about  the  firm." 

"  Oh  !  there's  no.-  much  to  be  told  about  the  firm,  uncle," 
said  the  boy,  plying  his  knife  and  fork.  "  It's  a  precious 
dark  set  of  offices,  and  in  the  room  where  I  sit,  there's  a 
high  fender,  and  an  iron  safe,  and  some  cards  about  ships 
that  are  going  to  sail,  and  an  almanac,  and  some  desks  and 
stools,  and  an  ink-bottle,  and  some  books,  and  some  boxes, 
and  a  lot  of  cobwebs,  and  in  one  of  'em,  just  over  my  head, 
a  shriveled-up  blue-bottle  that  looks  as  if  it  had  hung  there 
ever  so  long." 

"  Nothing  else  ?  "  said  the  uncle. 

"  No,  nothing  else,  except  an  old  bird-cage  (I  wonder  how 
that  ever  came  there  !)  and  a  coal-scuttle." 

"  No  bankers'  books,  or  check  books,  or  bills,  or  such 
tokens  of  wealth  rolling  in  from  day  to  day  ?  "  said  old  Sol, 
looking  wistfully  at  his  nephew  out  of  the  fog  that  always 
seemed  to  hang  about  him,  and  laying  an  unctuous  emphasis 
upon  the  words. 

"  Oh  yes,  plenty  of  that,  I  suppose,"  returned  his  nephew, 
carelessly  ;  "  but  all  that  sort  of  thing's  in  Mr.  Carker's 
room,  or  Mr.  Morfin's,  or  Mr.  Dombey's." 

"  Has  Mr.  Dombey  been  there  to-day  ?  "  inquired  the 
uncle. 

"  Oh  yes  !     In  and  out  all  day." 

"  He  didn't  take  any  notice  of  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  did.  He  walked  up  to  my  seat — I  wish  he  wasn't 
so  solemn  and  stiff,  uncle — and  said,  '  Oh  !  you  are  the  son 
of  Mr.   Gills  the   ships'  instrumeijt-inaker,'     '  Nephew,   sir.' 


46  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

I  said.  *  I  said  nephew,  boy,'  said  he.  But  I  could  take  my 
oath  he  said  son,  uncle." 

"  You're  mistaken,  I  dare  say.     It's  no  matter." 

"  No,  it's  no  matter,  but  he  needn't  have  been  so  sharp,  I 
thought.  There  was  no  harm  in  it  though  he  did  say  son. 
Then  he  told  me  that  you  had  spoken  to  him  about  me  and 
that  he  had  found  me  employment  in  the  house  accordingly, 
and  that  I  was  expected  to  be  attentive  and  punctual,  and 
then  he  went  away.  I  thought  he  didn't  seem  to  like  me 
much." 

"  You  mean,  I  suppose,"  observed  the  instrument-maker, 
"  that  you  didn't  seem  to  like  him  much." 

"  Well,  uncle,"  returned  the  boy,  laughing.  "  Perhaps 
so  ;  I  never  thought  of  that." 

Solomon  looked  a  little  graver  as  he  finished  his  dinner, 
and  glanced  from  time  to  time  at  the  boy's  bright  face. 
When  dinner  was  done,  and  the  cloth  was  cleared  away 
(the  entertainment  had  been  brought  from  a  neighboring 
eating-house),  he  lighted  a  candle,  and  went  down  below 
into  a  little  cellar,  while  his  nephew,  standing  on  the  moldy 
staircase,  dutifully  held  the  light.  After  a  moment's  grop- 
ing here  and  there,  he  presently  returned  with  a  very 
ancient-looking  bottle,  covered  with  dust  and  dirt. 

"  Why,  Uncle  Sol  !  "  said  the  boy,  "  what  are  you  about  ! 
that's  the  wonderful  Madeira ! — there's  only  one  more 
bottle  !  " 

Uncle  Sol  nodded  his  head,  implying  that  he  knew  very 
well  what  he  was  about  ;  and  having  drawn  the  cork  in 
solemn  silence,  filled  two  glasses,  and  set  the  bottle  and  a 
third  clean  glass  on  the  table. 

"  You  shall  drink  the  other  bottle,  Wally,"  he  said,  "  when 
you  come  to  good-fortune  ;  when  you  are  a  thriving, 
respected,  happy  man  ;  when  the  start  in  life  you  have  made 
to-day  shall  have  brought  you,  as  I  pray  Heaven  it  may  ! — 
to  a  smooth  part  of  the  course  you  have  to  run,  my  child. 
My  love  to  you  !  " 

Some  of  the  fog  that  had  hung  about  old  Sol  seemed 
to  have  got  into  his  throat  ;  for  he  spoke  huskily.  His 
hand  shook  too,  as  he  clinked  his  glass  against  his 
nephew's.  But  having  once  got  the  wine  to  his  lips,  he 
tossed  it  off  like  a  man,  and  smacked   them  afterward. 

"  Dear  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  affecting  to  make  light  of 
it,  while  the  tears    stood    in  his     eyes,  "for     the    honor 


DOMBEY   AND  SON.  47 

you  have  done  me,  et  cetera,  et  cetera.  I  shall  now  beg 
to  propose  Mr.  Solomon  Gills  with  three  times  three 
and  one  cheer  more.  Hurrali  I  and  you'll  return  thanks, 
uncle,  when  we  drink  the  last  bottle  together  ;  won't 
you  ?  " 

They  clinked  their  glasses  again  ;  and  Walter,  who  was 
hoarding  his  wine,  took  a  sip  of  it,  and  held  the  glass  up 
to  his  eye  with  as  critical  an  air  as  he  could  possibly 
assume. 

His  uncle  sat  looking  at  him  for  some  time  in  silence. 
When  their  eyes  at  last  met,  he  began  at  once  to  pursue  the 
theme  that  had  occupied  his  thoughts,  aloud,  as  if  he  had 
been  speaking  all  the  while. 

"  You  see,  Walter,"  he  said,  "  in  truth  this  business  is 
merely  a  habit  with  me.  I  am  so  accustomed  to  the  habit 
that  I  could  hardly  live  if  I  relinquished  it  ;  but  there's 
nothing  doing,  nothing  doing.  When  that  uniform  was 
worn,"  pointing  out  toward  the  little  midshipman,  "  then, 
indeed,  fortunes  were  to  be  made,  and  were  made.  But  com- 
petition, competition — new  invention,  new  invention — alter- 
ation, alteration — the  world's  gone  past  me.  I  hardly  know 
where  I  am  mvself  :  much   less  where  mv  customers  are." 

"  Never  mind  'em,  uncle  !  " 

"  Since  you  came  home  from  weekly  boarding-school  at 
Peckham,  for  instance — and  that's  ten  days,"  said  Solomon, 
"  I  don't  remember  more  than  one  person  that  has  come  into 
the  shop." 

'*  Two,  uncle,  don't  you  recollect  ?  There  was  the  man 
who  came  to  ask  for  change  for  a  sovereign — " 

"  That's  the  one,"  said  Solomon. 

"  Why,  uncle  !  don't  you  call  the  woman  any  body,  who 
came  to  ask  the  way  to  Mile-End  Turnpike  ?  " 

"Oh  !  it's  true,"  said  Solomon,  "  I  forgot  her.  Two  per- 
sons." 

"  To  be  sure,  they  didn't  buy  any  thing,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  No.     They  didn't  buy  any  thing,"  said  Solomon,  quietly. 

"  Nor  want  any  thing,"  cried  the  boy. 

*'  No.  If  they  had,  they'd  gone  to  another  shop,"  said 
Solomon,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  But  there  were  two  of  'em,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  as  if 
that  were  a  great  triumph.      "  You  said  only  one." 

"  Well,  Wally,"  resumed  the  old  man,  after  a  short  pause  : 
"  not  being  like  the  savages  who  came  on  Robinson  Crusoe's 


48  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Island,  we  can't  live  on  a  man  who  asks  for  change  for  a 
sovereign,  and  a  woman  who  inquires  the  way  to  Mile-End 
Turnpike.  As  I  said  just  now,  the  world  has  gone  past  me. 
t  don't  blame  it ;  but  I  no  longer  understand  it.  Trades- 
men are  hot  the  same  as  they  used  to  be,  apprentices  are  not 
the  same,  l3usiness  is  not  the  same,  business  commodities  are 
not  the  same.  Seven-eighths  of  my  stock  is  old-fashioned. 
1  am  art  old-fashioned  man  in  an  old-fashioned  shop,  in  a 
street  that  is  not  the  same  as  I  remember  it.  I  have  fallen 
behind  the  time,  and  am  too  old  to  catch  it  again.  Even  the 
noise  it  makes  a  long  way  ahead,  confuses  me." 

Walter  was  going  to  speak,  but  his  uncle  held  up  his 
hand. 

"  Therefore,  Wally — therefore  it  is  that  I  am  anxious  you 
should  be  early  in  the  busy  world,  and  on  the  world's  track. 
I  am  only  the  ghost  of  this  business — its  substance  vanished 
long  ago  ;  and  when  I  die,  its  ghost  will  be  laid.  As  it  is 
clearly  no  inheritance  for  you  then,  I  have  thought  it  best  to 
use  for  your  advantage,  almost  the  only  fragment  of  the  old 
connection  that  stands  by  me,  through  long  habit.  Some 
people  suppose  me  to  be  wealthy.  I  wish  for  your  sake  they 
were  right.  But  whatever  I  leave  behind  me,  or  whatever  I 
can  give  you,  you  in  such  a  house  as  Dombey's  are  in  the  road 
to  use  well  and  make  the  most  of.  Be  diligent,  try  to  like  it, 
my  dear  boy,  work  for  a  steady  independence,  and  be 
happy  I  " 

"  I'll  do  every  thing  I  can,  uncle,  to  deserve  your  affection. 
Indeed  I  will,"  said  the  boy,  earnestly. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Solomon.  "  I  am  sure  of  it,"  and  he 
applied  himself  to  a  second  glass  of  the  old  Madeira,  with 
increased  relish.  "As  to  the  sea,"  he  pursued,  "  that's  well 
enough  in  fiction,  Wally,  but  it  won't  do  in  fact:  it  won't  do 
at  all.  It's  natural  enough  that  you  should  think  about  it, 
associating  it  with  all  these  familiar  things  ;  but  it  won't  do, 
it  won't  do.-" 

Solomon  Gills  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  stealthy 
enjoyment,  as  he  talked  of  the  sea,  though;  and  looked  on 
the  sea-faring  objects  about  him  with  inexpressible  compla- 
cency. 

"  Think  of  this  wine,  for  instance,"  said  old  Sol,  "  which  has 
been  to  the  East  Indies  and  back,  I'm  not  able  to  say  how 
often,  and  has  been  once  round  the  world.  Think  of  the  pitch- 
dark  nights,  the  roaring  winds,  and  rolling  seas  :  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  49 

"  The  thunder,  lightning,  rain,  hail,  storm  of  all  kinds," 
said  the  boy. 

**  To  be  sure,"  said  Solomon — "  that  this  wine  has  passed 
through.  Think  what  a  straining  and  creaking  of  timbers 
and  masts  :  what  a  whistling  and  howling  of  the  gale  through 
ropes  and  rigging  :  " 

"  What  a  clambering  aloft  of  men,  vying  with  each  other 
who  shall  lie  out  first  upon  the  yards  to  furl  the  icy  sails,  while 
the  ship  rolls  and  pitches,  like  mad  !  "  cried  his  nephew. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Solomon  :  "  has  gone  on,  over  the  old 
cask  that  held  this  wine.  Why,  when  the  Charming  Sally 
went  down  in  the — " 

"  In  the  Baltic  Sea,  in  the  dead  of  the  night  ;  five-and- 
twenty  minutes  past  twelve  when  the  captain's  watch  stopped 
in  his'pocket  ;  he  lying  dead  against  the  mainmast — on  the 
fourteenth  of  February,  seventeen  forty-nine  !  "  cried  Walter, 
with  great  animation. 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure  !  "  cried  old  Sol,  ''  quite  right  !  Then,  there 
were  five  hundred  casks  of  such  wine  aboard  ;  and  all  hands 
(except  the  first  mate,  first  lieutenant,  two  seamen,  and  a  lady, 
in  a  leaky  boat)  going  to  work  to  stave  the  casks,  got  drunk 
and  died  drunk,  singing,  '  Rule  Britannia,'  when  she  settled 
and  went  down,  and  ending  with  one  awful  scream  in  chorus." 

"  But  when  the  George  the  Second  drove  ashore,  uncle,  on 
the  coast  of  Cornwall,  in  a  dismal  gale,  two  hours  before  day- 
break, on  the  fourth  of  March,  'seventy-one,  she  had  near  two 
hundred  horses  aboard  ;  and  the  horses  breaking  loose  down 
below,  early  in  the  gale,  and  tearing  to  and  fro,  and  trampling 
each  other  to  death,  made  such  noises,  and  set  up  such  human 
cries,  that  the  crew  believing  the  ship  to  be  full  of  devils,  some 
of  the  best  men,  losing  heart  and  head,  went  overboard  in 
despair,  and  only  two  were  left  alive,  at  last,  to  tell  the  tale." 

"  And  when,"  said  old  Sol,  *'  when  the  Polyphemus — " 

"  Private  West  India  trader,  burden  three  hundred  and 
fifty  tons.  Captain,  John  Brown  of  Deptford.  Owners,  Wiggs 
and  Co.,  "  cried  Walter. 

"  The  same,"  said  Sol;  "when  she  took  fire,  four  days' 
sail  with  a  fair  wind  out  of  Jamaica  Harbor,  in  the  night — '' 
"  There  were  two  brothers  on  board,"  interposed  his 
nephew,  speaking  very  fast  and  loud,  ''  and  there  not  being 
room  for  both  of  them  in  the  only  boat  that  wasn't  swamped, 
neither  of  them  would  consent  to  go,  until  the  elder  took  the 
younger  by  the  waist  and  flung  him  in.      And   then   the 


50  DOMBBY  AND   SON. 

younger  rising  in  the  boat,  cried  out,  '  Dear  Edward,  think  of 
your  promised  wife  at  home.  I'm  only  a  boy.  No  one 
waits  at  home  for  me.  Leap  down  into  my  place  ! '  and  flung 
himself  in  the  sea  !  " 

The  kindling  eye  and  heightened  color  of  the  boy,  who  had 
risen  from  his  seat  in  the  earnestness  of  what  he  said  and  felt, 
seemed  to  remmd  old  Sol  of  something  he  had  forgotten,  or 
that  his  encircling  mist  had  hitherto  shut  out.  Instead  of 
proceeding  with  any  more  anecdotes,  as  he  had  evidently 
intended  but  a  moment  before,  he  gave  a  short  dry  cough,  and 
said,   "  Well  !  suppose  we  change  the  subject." 

The  truth  was,  that  the  simple-minded  uncle  in  his  secret 
attraction  toward  the  marvelous  and  adventurous — of  which 
he  was,  in  some  sort,  a  distant  relation,  by  his  trade — had 
greatly  encouraged  the  same  attraction  in  the  nephew  ;  and 
that  every  thing  that  had  ever  been  put  before  the  boy  to  deter 
him  from  a  life  of  adventure,  had  had  the  usual  unaccount- 
able effect  of  sharpening  his  taste  for  it.  This  is  invariable. 
It  would  seem  as  if  there  never  was  a  book  written,  or  a  story 
told,  expressly  with  the  object  of  keeping  boys  on  shore,  which 
did  not  lure  and  charm  them  to  the  ocean,  as  a  matter  of 
course. 

But  an  addition  to  the  little  party  now  made  its  appearance, 
in  the  shape  of  a  gentleman  in  a  wide  suit  of  blue,  with  a  hook 
instead  of  a  hand  attached  to  his  right  wrist  ;  very  bushy 
black  eyebrows  ;  and  a  thick  stick  in  his  left  hand,  covered  all 
over  (like  his  nose)  with  knobs.  He  wore  a  loose  black  silk 
handkerchief  round  his  neck,  and  such  a  very  large  coarse 
shirt  collar,  that  it  looked  like  a  small  sail.  He  was  evi- 
dently the  person  for  whom  the  spare  wine-glass  was  intended, 
and  evidently  knew  it  ;  for  having  taken  off  his  rough  outer 
coat,  and  hung  up,  on  a  particular  peg  behind  the  door, 
such  a  hard  glazed  hat  as  a  sympathetic  person's  head  might 
ache  at  the  sight  of,  and  which  left  a  red  rim  round  his  own 
forehead  as  if  he  had  been  wearing  a  tight  basin,  he  brought 
a  chair  to  where  the  clean  glass  was,-  and  sat  himself  down 
behind  it.  He  was  usually  addressed  as  captain,  this  visi- 
tor ;  and  had  been  a  pilot,  or  a  skipper,  or  a  privateersman, 
or  all  three  perhaps  ;  and  was  a  very  salt-looking  man 
indeed. 

His  face,  remarkable  for  a  brown  solidity,  brightened  as  he 
shook  hands  with  uncle  and  nephew  ;  but  he  seemed  to  be 
of  a  laconic  disposition,  and  merely  said  : 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  51 

"  How  goes  it  ?" 

"  All  well,"  said  Mr.  Gills,  pushing  the  bottle  towam  nim. 
He  took  it  up,  and  having  surveyed  and  smelled  it,  said, 
with  extraordinary  expression  : 
"  The  ?  " 

"  T/ie,''  returned  the  instrument-maker. 
Upon  that  he  whistled  as  he  filled  his  glass,  and  seemed 
to  think  they  were  making  holiday  indeed. 

"  Wal'r  !  "  he  said,  arranging  his  hair  (which  was  thin) 
with  his  hook,  and  then  pointing  it  at  the  instrument-maker. 
"  Look  at  him  !  Love  !  Honor  !  And  obey  !  Overhaul 
your  catechism  till  you  find  that  passage,  and  when  found 
turn  the  leaf  down.     Success,  my  boy  !  " 

He  was  so  perfectly  satisfied  both  with  his  quotation  and 
his  reference  to  it,  that  he  could  not  help  repeating  the  words 
again  in  a  low  voice,  and  saying  he  had  forgotten  'em  these 
forty  year. 

"  But  I  never  wanted  two  or  three  words  in  my  life  that  I 
didn't  know  where   to  lay  my  hand   upon  'em,    Gills,"    he 
observed.     "  It  comes  of  not  wasting  language  as  some  do." 
The  reflection  perhaps  reminded  him  that  he  had  better, 
like  young  Norval's  father,   "increase   his   store."     At  any 
rate  he  became  silent,  and  remained  so,  until  old  Sol  went 
out  into  the  shop  to  light  it  up,  when  he  turned  to  Walter, 
and  said,  without  any  introductory  remark  :  ^ 
"  I  suppose  he  could  make  a  clock  if  he  tried  ? " 
"I  shouldn't    wonder.    Captain    Cuttle,"    returned    the 
boy. 

"  And  it  would  go  ! "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  making  a 
species  of  serpent  in  the  air  with  his  hook.  "  Lord,  how  that 
clock  would  go  1" 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  seemed  quite  lost  in  contemplat- 
ing the  pace  of  this  ideal  time-piece,  and  sat  looking  at  the 
boy  as  if  his  face  were  the  dial. 

"  But  he's  chock-full  of  science,"  he  observed,  waving  his 
hook  toward  the  stock  in  trade.  "  Look  'ye  here  ?  Here's  a 
collection  of  'em.  Earth,  air,  or  water.  It's  all  one.  Oialy 
say  where  you'll  have  it.  Up  in  a  balloon  ?  There  you  are. 
Down  in  a  bell  ?  There  you  are.*  D'ye  want  to  put  the 
North  Star  in  a  pair  of  scales  and  weigh  it  ?     He'll  do  it  for 

you." 

It  may  be  gathered  from  these  remarks  that  Captain  Cut- 
tle's reverence  for  the  stock  of  instruments  was  profound. 


52  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

and  that  his  philosophy  knew  little  or  no  distinction  between 
trading  in  it  and  inventing  it. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  it's  a  fine  thing  to  under- 
stand 'em.  And  yet  it's  a  fine  thing  not  to  understand  'em. 
I  hardly  know  which  is  best.  It's  so  comfortable  to  sit  here 
and  feel  that  you  might  be  weighed,  measured,  magnified, 
electrified,  polarized,  played  the  very  devil  with  :  and  never 
know  how." 

Nothing  short  of  the  wonderful  Madeira,  combined  with 
the  occasion  (which  rendered  it  desirable  to  improve  and 
expand  Walter's  mind),  could  have  ever  loosened  his  tongue 
to  the  extent  of  giving  utterance  to  this  prodigious  oration. 
He  seemed  quite  amazed  himself  at  the  manner  in  which  it 
opened  up  to  view  the  sources  of  the  taciturn  delight  he  had 
had  in  eating  Sunday  dinners  in  that  parlor  for  ten  years. 
Becoming  a  sadder  and  a  wiser  man,  he  mused  and  held  his 
peace. 

"  Come  !  "  cried  the  subject  of  his  admiration,  returning. 
"  Before  you  have  your  glass  of  grog,  Ned,  we  must  finish 
the  bottle." 

"  Stand  by  !  "  said  Ned,  filling  his  glass.  "  Give  the  boy 
some  more." 

"  No  more,  thank'ee,  uncle  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Sol,  "  a  little  more.  We'll  finish  the  bot- 
tle, to  the  house,  Ned — Walter's  house.  Why  it  may  be  his 
house  one  of  these  days,  in  part.  Who  knows  ?  Sir  Rich- 
ard Whittington  married  his  master's  daughter." 

"  '  Turn  again  Whittington,  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and 
when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it,'  "  interposed 
the  captain.     "  Wal'r  !     Overhaul  the  book,  my  lad." 

"  And  although  Mr.  Dombey  hasn't  a  daughter,"  Sol 
began. 

"Yes,  yes,  he  has,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  reddening  and 
laughing. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  Indeed  I  think  he  has 
too." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  he  has,"  said  the  boy.  "  Some  of  'em  were 
talking  about  it  in  the  office  to-day.  And  they  do  say,  uncle 
and  Captain  Cuttle,"  lowering  his  voice,  "  that  he's  taken  a 
dislike  to  her,  and  that  she's  left,  unnoticed,  among  the  serv- 
ants, and  that  his  mind's  so  set  all  the  while  upon  having 
his  son  in  the  house,  that  although  he's  only  a  baby  now,  he 
is  going  to  have  balances  struck  oftener  than  formerly,  and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  53 

the  books  kept  closer  than  they  used  to  be,  and  has  even  been 
seen  (when  he  thought  he  wasn't),  walking  in  the  Docks, 
looking  at  his  ships  and  property  and  all  that,  as  if  he  was 
exulting  like,  over  what  he  and  his  son  will  possess  together. 
That's  what  they  say.     Of  course  /don't  know." 

"  He  knows  all  about  her  already,  you  see,"  said  the 
instrument-maker. 

"  Nonsense,  uncle,"  cried  the  boy,  still  reddening  and 
laughing,  boy-like.  "  How  can  1  help  hearing  what  they  tell 
me?" 

"  The  son's  a  little  in  our  way  at  present,  I'm  afraid,  Ned," 
said  the  old  man,  humoring  the  joke. 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Nevertheless,  we'll  drink  him,"  pursued  Sol.  "  So,  here's 
to  Dombey  and  Son." 

"  Oh,  very  well,  uncle,"  said  the  boy,  merrily.  "  Since 
you  have  introduced  the  mention  of  her,  and  have  connected 
me  with  her,  and  have  said  that  I  know  all  about  her,  I  shall 
make  bold  to  amend  the  toast.  So  here's  to  Dombey— and 
Son — and  Daughter  !  " 

CHAPTER  V. 

Paul's  progress  and  christening. 

Little  Paul  suffering  no  contamination,  from  the  blood  of 
the  Toodles,  grew  stouter  and  stronger  every  day.  Every 
day,  too,  he  was  more  and  more  ardently  cherished  by  Miss 
Tox,  whose  devotion  was  so  far  appreciated  by  Mr.  Dombey 
that  he  began  to  regard  her  as  a  woman  of  great  natural  good 
sense,  whose  feelings  did  her  credit  and  deserved  encourage- 
ment. He  was  so  lavish  of  this  condescension,  that  he  not 
only  bowed  to  her,  in  a  particular  manner,  on  several  occa- 
sions, but  even  intrusted  such  stately  recognitions  of  her  to 
his  sister  as  "  pray  tell  your  friend,  Louisa,  that  she  is  very 
good,"  or  "  mentiDn  to  Miss  Tox,  Louisa,  that  I  am  obliged 
to  her  ;  "  specia-lties  which  made  a  deep  impression  on  the 
lady  thus  distinguished. 

Miss  Tox  was  often  in  the  habit  of  assuring  Mrs.  Chick, 
that  "  nothing  could  exceed  her  interest  in  all  connected 
mth  the  development  of  that  sweet  child  ; "  and  an  observer 
of  Miss  Tox's  proceedings    might    have  inferred  so  much 


54  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

without  declaratory  confirmation.  She  would  preside  over 
the  innocent  repasts  of  the  young  heir,  with  ineffable  satis- 
faction, almost  with  an  air  of  joint  proprietorship  with 
Richards  in  the  entertainment.  At  the  little  ceremonies  of 
the  bath  and  toilet,  she  assisted  with  enthusiasm.  The 
administration  of  infantine  doses  of  physic  awakened  all  the 
active  sympathy  of  her  character  ;  and  being  on  one  occa- 
sion secreted  in  a  cupboard  (whither  she  had  fled  in  modesty), 
when  Mr.  Dombey  w^as  introduced  into  the  nursery  by  his 
sister,  to  behold  his  son,  in  the  course  of  preparation  for  bed, 
taking  a  short  walk  up-hill  over  Richards's  gown,  in  a  short 
and  airy  linen  jacket.  Miss  Tox  was  so  transported  beyond 
the  ignorant  present  as  to  be  unable  to  refrain  from  crying 
out,  "  Is  he  not  beautiful,  Mr.  Dombey  !  Is  he  not  a  Cupid, 
sir  !  "  and  then  almost  sinking  behind  the  closet  door  with 
confusion  and  blushes. 

"  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  one  day  to  his  sister,  "  I 
really  think  I  must  present  your  friend  with  some  little 
token,  on  the  occasion  of  Paul's  christening.  She  has 
exerted  herself  so  warmly  in  the  child's  behalf  from  the  first, 
and  seems  to  understand  her  position  so  thoroughly  (a  very 
rare  merit  in  this  world,  I  am  sorry  to  say),  that  it  would 
really  be  agreeable  to  me  to  notice  her." 

Let  it  be  no  detraction  from  the  merits  of  Miss  Tox,  to 
hint  that  in  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes,  as  in  some  others  that 
occasionally  see  the  light,  they  only  achieved  that  mighty 
piece  of  knowledge,  the  understanding  of  their  own  position, 
who  showed  a  fitting  reverence  for  his.  It  was  not  so  much 
their  merit  that  they  knew  themselves,  as  that  they  knew 
him,  and  bowed  low  before  him. 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "you  do  Miss  Tox 
but  justice,  as  a  man  of  your  penetration  was  sure,  I  knew, 
to  do.  I  believe  if  there  are  three  words  in  the  English 
language  for  which  she  has  a  respect  amounting  almost  to 
veneration,  those  w^ords  are,  Dombey  and  Son." 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ''  I  beUeve  it.  It  does  Miss 
Tox  credit." 

"  And  as  to  any  thing  in  the  shape  of  a  token,  my  dear 
Paul,"  pursued  his  sister,  "  all  I  can  say  is  that  any  thing 
you  give  Miss  Tox  wdll  be  hoarded  and  prized,  I  am  sure, 
like  a  reHc.  But  there  is  a  way,  my  dear  Paul,  of  showing 
your  sense  of  Miss  Tox's  friendliness  in  a  still  more  flatter- 
ing and  acceptable  manner,  if  you  should  be  so  inclined." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  55 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Godfathers,  of  course,"  continued  Mrs.  Chick,  "  are 
important  in  point  of  connection  and  influence." 

"  I  don't  know  why  they  should  be,  to  my  son,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  coldly. 

"  Very  true,  my  dear  Paul,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  an 
extraordinary  show  of  animation,  to  cover  the  suddenness 
of  her  conversion  ;  "  and  spoken  like  yourself.  I  might 
have  expected  nothing  else  from  you.  I  might  have  known 
that  such  would  have  been  your  opinion.  Perhaps  ;  "  here 
Mrs.  Chick  flattered  again,  as  not  quite  comfortably  feeling 
her  way  ;  "  perhaps  that  is  a  reason  why  you  might  have  the 
less  objection  to  allowing  Miss  Tox  to  be  godmother  to  the 
dear  thing,  if  it  were  only  as  deputy  and  proxy  for  some  one 
else.  That  it  would  be  received  as  a  great  honor  and  dis- 
tinction, Paul,  I  need  not  say." 

**  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a  short  pause,  ''it -is 
not  to  be  supposed — " 

"  Certainly  not,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  hastening  to  antici- 
pate a  refusal,  "  I  never  thought  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"  Don't  flurry  me,  my  dear  Paul,"  said  his  sister  ;  "  for 
that  destroys  me.  I  am  far  from  strong.  I  have  not  been 
quite  myself  since  poor  dear  Fanny  departed." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  pocket-handkerchief  which 
his  sister  applied  to  her  eyes,  and  resumed  : 

'*  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  I  say — " 

"And  I  say,"  murmured  Mrs.  Chick,  "that  I  never 
thought  it  was." 

"  Good  Heaven,  Louisa  !  "    said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"No,  my  dear  Paul,"  she  remonstrated  with  tearful  dig- 
nity, "  I  must  really  be  allowed  to  speak.  I  am  not  so 
clever,  or  so  reasoning,  or  so  eloquent,  or  so  any  thing,  as 
you  are.  I  know  that  very  well.  So  much  the  worse  for 
me.  But  if  they  were  the  last  words  I  had  to  utter — and 
last  words  should  be  very  solemn  to  you  and  me,  Paul,  after 
poor  dear  Fanny — I  should  still  say  I  never  thought  it 
was.  And  what  is  more,"  added  Mrs.  Chick  with 
increased  dignity,  as  if  she  had  withheld  her  crushing 
argument  until  now,  "  I  never  did  think  it  was." 

Mr.  Dombey  walked  to  the  window  and  back  again. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  Louisa,"  he  said  (Mrs.  Chick 
had  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast,  and  repeated  "  I  know 


56  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

it  isn't,"  but  he  took  no  notice  of  it),  *' but  that  there 
are  many  persons  who,  supposing  that  I  recognized  any 
claim  at  all  in  such  a  case,  have  a  claim  upon  me 
superior  to  Miss  Tox's.  But  I  do  not.  I  recognize  no 
such  thing.  Paul  and  myself  will  be  able,  when  the  time 
comes,  to  hold  our  own — the  house,  in  other  words,  will  be  able 
to  hold  its  own,  and  maintain  its  own,  and  hand  down  its  own 
of  itself,  and  without  any  such  commonplace  aids.  The  kind 
of  foreign  help  which  people  usually  seek  for  their  children,  I 
can  afford  to  despise  ;  being  above  it,  I  hope.  So  that  Paul's 
infancy  and  childhood  pass  away  well,  and  1  see  him  becoming 
qualified  without  waste  of  time  for  the  career  on  which  he  is 
destined  to  enter,  I  am  satisfied.  He  will  make  what  powerful 
friends  he  pleases  in  after  life,  when  he  is  actively  maintain- 
ing— and  extending,  if  that  is  possible — the  dignity  and 
credit  of  the  firm.  Until  then,  I  am  enough  for  him,  per- 
haps, and  all  in  all.  I  have  no  wish  that  people  should  step 
in  between  us.  I  would  much  rather  show  my  sense  of  the 
obliging  conduct  of  a  deserving  person  like  your  friend. 
Therefore  let  it  be  so  ;  and  your  husband  and  myself  will  do 
well  enough  for  the  other  sponsors,  I  dare  say." 

In  the  course  of  these  remarks,  delivered  with  great 
majesty  and  grandeur,  Mr.  Dombey  had  truly  revealed  the 
secret  feelings  of  his  breast.  An  indescribable  distrust  of 
any  body  stepping  in  between  himself  and  tiis  son  ;  a  haughty 
dread  of  having  any  rival  or  partner  in  the  boy's  respect  and 
deference  ;  a  sharp  misgiving,  recently  acquired,  that  he  was 
not  infallible  in  his  power  of  bending  and  binding  human 
wills  ;  as  sharp  a  jealousy  of  any  second  check  or  cross  ;  these 
were,  at  that  time,  the  master-keys  of  his  soul.  In  all  his  life, 
he  had  never  made  a  friend.  His  cold  and  distant  nature 
had  neither  sought  one,  nor  found  one.  And  now,  when 
that  nature  concentrated  its  whole  force  so  strongly  on  a 
partial  scheme  of  parental  interest  and  ambition,  it  seemed 
as  if  its  icy  current,  instead  of  being  released  by  this  influ- 
ence, and  running  clear  and  free,  had  thawed  for  but  an 
instant  to  admit  its  burden,  and  then  frozen  with  it  into  one 
unyielding  block. 

Elevated  thus  to  the  godmothership  of  little  Paul,  in  virtue 
of  her  insignificance.  Miss  Tox  was  from  that  hour  chosen 
and  appointed  to  office  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  further  signified 
his  pleasure  that  the  ceremony,  already  long  delayed,  should 
take  place  without  further  postponement      His  sister,  who 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  57 

had  been  far  from  anticipating  so  signal  a  success,  withdrew 
as  soon  as  she  could,  to  communicate  it  to  her  best  of 
friends  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  was  left  alone  in  his  library. 

There  was  any  thing  but  solitude  in  the  nursery  ;  for  there, 
Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  enjoying  a  social  evening,  so 
much  to  the  disgust  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  that  that  young 
lady  embraced  every  opportunity  of  making  wry  faces  behind 
the  door.  Her  feelings  were  so  much  excited  on  the  occa- 
sion, that  she  found  it  indispensable  to  afford  them  this  relief, 
even  without  having  the  comfort  of  any  audience  or  sympathy 
whatever.  As  ths  knight-errants  of  old  relieved  their  minds 
by  carving  their  mistress's  names  in  deserts,  and  wildernesses, 
and  other  savage  places  where  there  was  no  probability  of 
there  ever  being  any  body  to  read  them,  so  did  Miss  Susan 
Nipper  curl  her  snub-nose  into  drawers  and  wardrobes,  put 
away  winks  of  disparagement  in  cupboards,  shed  derisive 
squints  into  stone  pitchers,  and  contradict  and  call  names 
out  in  the  passage. 

The  two  interlopers,  however,  blissfully  unconscious  of  the 
young  lady's  sentiments,  saw  little  Paul  safe  through  all  the 
stages  of  undressing,  airy  exercise,  supper,  and  bed  ;  and 
then  sat  down  to  tea  before  the  fire.  The  two  children  now 
lay,  through  the  good  offices  of  Polly,  in  one  room  ;  and  it 
was  not  until  the  ladies  were  established  at  their  tea-table 
that,  happening  to  look  toward  the  little  beds,  they  thought 
of  Florence. 

"  How  sound  she  sleeps  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  you  know,  my  dear,  she  takes  a  great  deal  of  exer- 
cise in  the  course  of  the  day,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  play- 
ing about  little  Paul  so  much." 

"  She  is  a  curious  child,"  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  My  dear,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  low  voice  :  "  Her 
mamma  all  over  !  " 

"  Indeed  I  "  said  Miss  Tox.     "  Ah  dear  me  !  " 

A  tone  of  most  extraordinary  compassion  Miss  Tox  said 
it  in,  though  she  had  no  distinct  idea  why,  except  that  it  was 
expected  of  her. 

"  Florence  will  never,  never,  never,  be  a  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  not  if  she  lives  to  be  a  thousand  years  old." 

Miss  Tox  elevated  her  eyebrows,  and  was  again  full  of 
commiseration. 

"  I  quite  fret  and  worry  myself  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  a  sigh  of  modest  merit.      "  I  really  don't  see 


58  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

what  is  to  become  of  her  when  she  grows  older,  or  what 
position  she  is  to  take.  She  don't  gain  on  her  papa  in  the 
least.  How  can  one  expect  she  should,  when  she  is  so  very 
unlike  a  Dombey  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  looked  as  if  she  saw  no  way  out  of  such  a 
cogent  argument  as  that,  at  all. 

^'  And  the  child,  you  see,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  deep  con- 
fidence, *'  has  poor  Fanny's  nature.  She'll  never  make  an 
effort  in  after  life,  I'll  venture  to  say.  Never  !  She'll  never 
wind  and  twine  herself  about  her  papa's  heart  like — " 

"  Like  the  ivy  ?  "   suggested  Miss  Tox. 

**  Like  the  ivy,"  Mrs.  Chick  assented.  *'  Never  !  She'll 
never  glide  and  nestle  into  the  bosom  of  her  papa's  affec- 
tions like — the — " 

"  Startled  fawn  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  Like  the  startled  fawn,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Never  ! 
Poor  Fanny  !  Yet,  how  I  loved  her  !  " 

"  You  must  not  distress  yourself,  my  dear,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  in  a  soothing  voice.  "  Now  really  !  You  have  too 
much  feeling." 

"  We  have  all  our  faults,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  weeping,  and 
shaking  her  head.  "  I  dare  say  we  have.  I  never  was 
blind  to  hers.  I  never  said  I  was.  Far  from  it.  Yet  how 
I  loved  her  !  " 

What  a  satisfaction  it  was  to  Mrs.  Chick — a  common- 
place piece  of  folly  enough,  compared  with  whom  her  sister- 
in-law  had  been  a  very  angel  of  womanly  intelligence  and 
gentleness — to  patronize  and  be  tender  to  the  memory  of 
that  lady  :  in  exact  pursuance  of  her  conduct  to  her  in  her 
lifetime  :  and  to  thoroughly  believe  herself,  and  take  her- 
self in,  and  make  herself  uncommonly  comfortable  on  the 
strength  of  her  toleration  !  What  a  mighty  pleasant  virtue 
toleration  should  be  when  we  are  right,  to  be  so  very  pleas- 
ant when  we  are  wrong,  and  quite  unable  to  demonstrate 
how  we  come  to  be  invested  with  the  privilege  of  exercis- 
ing it  ! 

Mrs.  Chick  was  yet  drying  her  eyes  and  shaking  her  head, 
when  Richards  made  bold  to  caution  her  that  Miss  Florence 
was  awake  and  sitting  in  her  bed.  She  had  risen,  as  the 
nurse  said,  and  the  lashes  of  her  eyes  were  wet  with  tears. 
But  no  one  saw  them  glistening  save  Polly.  No  one  else 
leaned  over  her,  and  whispered  soothing  words  to  her,  or 
was  near  enough  to  hear  the  flutter  of  her  beating  heart. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  59 

"  Oh  !  dear  nurse  !  "  said  the  child,  looking  earnestly  up 
in  her  face,  "  let  me  lie  by  my  brother  !  " 

"  Why,  my  pet  ?  "    said  Richards. 

"  Oh  !  I  think  he  loves  me,"  cried  the  child,  wildly.  "  Let 
me  lie  by  him.     Pray  do  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  interposed  with  some  motherly  words  about 
going  to  sleep  like  a  dear,  but  Florence  repeated  her  sup- 
plication, with  a  frightened  look,  and  in  a  voice  broken  by 
sobs  and  tears. 

"  I'll  not  wake  him,"  she  said,  covering  her  face  and 
hanging  down  her  head.  "  I'll  only  touch  him  with  my 
hand,  and  go  to  sleep.  Oh,  pray,  pray,  let  me  lie  by  my 
brother  to-night,  for  I  believe  he's  fond  of  me  !  " 

Richards  took  her  without  a  word,  and  earning  her  to 
the  little  bed  in  which  the  infant  was  sleeping,  laid  her  down 
by  his  side.  She  crept  as  near  him  as  she  could  without 
disturbing  his  rest  ;  and  stretching  out  one  arm  so  that  it 
timidly  embraced  his  neck,  and  hiding  her  face  on  the  other, 
over  which  her  damp  and  scattered  hair  fell  loose,  lay 
motionless. 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  "  she  has  been  dream- 
ing, I  dare  say." 

This  trivial  incident  had  so  interrupted  the  current  of  con 
versation,  that  it  was  difficult  of  resumption  ;  and  Mrs. 
Chick  moreover  had  been  so  affected  by  the  contemplation 
of  her  own  tolerant  nature,  that  she  was  not  in  spirits. 
The  two  friends  accordingly  soon  made  an  end  of  their  tea, 
and  a  servant  was  dispatched  to  fetch  a  hackney  cabriolet 
for  Miss  Tox.  Miss  Tox  had  great  experience  in  hackney 
cabs,  and  her  starting  in  one  was  generally  a  work  of  time, 
as  she  was  systematic  in  the  preparatory  arrangements. 

"  Have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,  Towlinson,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  "  first  of  all,  to  carry  out  a  pen  and  ink  and  take  his 
number  legibly." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Then,  if  you  please,  TowHnson,"  said  Miss  Tox,  **  have 
the  goodness  to  turn  the  cushion.  Which,"  said  Miss  Tox 
apart  to  Mrs.  Chick,  "  is  generally  damp,  my  dear." 

"  Yes,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  I'll  trouble  you  also,  if  you  please,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  with  this  card  and  this  shilling.  He's  to  drive  to  the  card, 
and  is  to  understand  that  he  v/ill  not  on  any  account  have 
more  than  the  shilling." 


6o  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  No,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  And — I'm  sorry  to  give  you  so  much  trouble,  Towlin- 
son," said  Miss  Tox,  looking  at  him  pensively. 

"  Not  at  all,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  Mention  to  the  man,  then,  if  you  please,  Towlinson," 
said  Miss  Tox,  "  that  the  lady's  uncle  is  a  magistrate,  and 
that  if  he  gives  her  any  of  his  impertinence  he  will  be  pun- 
ished terribly.  You  can  pretend  to  say  that,  if  you  please, 
Towlinson,  in  a  friendly  way,  and  because  you  know  it  was 
done  to  another  man,  w^ho  died." 

"  Certainly,  miss,"  said  Towlinson. 

"  And  now  good-night  to  my  sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  godson," 
said  Miss  Tox,  with  a  soft  shower  of  kisses  at  each  repetition 
of  the  adjective  ;  ^'  and  Louisa,  my  dear  friend,  promise  me 
to  take  a  little  soniething  warm  before  you  go  to  bed,  and 
not  to  distress  yourself  !  " 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  Nipper  the  black-eyed, 
who  looked  on  steadfastly,  contained  herself  at  this  crisis, 
and,  until  the  subsequent  departure  of  Mrs.  Chick.  But  the 
nursery  being  at  length  free  of  visitors,  she  made  herself 
some  recompense  for  her  late  restraint. 

"  You  might  keep  me  in  a  strait-waistcoat  for  six  weeks," 
said  Nipper,  "  and  when  I  got  it  off  I'd  only  be  more  aggra- 
vated, who  ever  heard  the  like  of  them  two  Griffins,  Mrs. 
Richards  ?  " 

"  And  then  to  talk  of  having  been  dreaming,  poor  dear  !  " 
said  Polly. 

"  Oh  you  beauties  !  "  cried  Susan  Nipper,  affecting  to 
salute  the  door  by  which  the  ladies  had  departed.  "  Never 
be  a  Dombey  won't  she  ?  It's  to  be  hoped  she  won't  ;  we 
don't  want  any  more  such — one's  enough." 

"  Don't  wake  the  children,  Susan  dear,"  said  Polly. 

"  I'm  very  much  beholden  to  you,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said 
Susan,  who  was  not  by  any  means  discriminating  in  her 
wrath,  "  and  really  feel  it  as  a  honor  to  receive  your  com- 
mands, being  a  black  slave  and  a  mulotter.  Mrs.  Richards, 
if  there's  any  other  orders  you  can  give  me,  pray  mention 
'em." 

"  Nonsense  ;    orders,"  said  Polly. 

"  Oh  !  bless  your  heart,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Susan, 
"  temporaries  always  orders  permanencies  here,  didn't  you 
know  that,  why  wherever  was  you  born,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  But 
wherever  you  was  born,  Mrs.  Richards,"  pursued   Spitfire, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  6i 

shaking  her  head  resolutely,  "  and  whenever,  and  however 
(which  is  best  known  to  yourself),  you  may  bear  in  mind, 
please,  that  it's  one  thing  to  give  orders,  and  quite  another 
thing  to  take  'em.  A  person  may  tell  a  person  to  dive  off  a 
bridge  head  foremost  into  five-and-forty  feet  of  water,  Mrs. 
Richards,  but  a  person  may  be  very  far  from  diving." 

"  There  now,"  said  Polly,  "you're  angry  because  you're 
a  good  little  thing,  and  fond  of  Miss  Florence  ;  and  yet  you 
turn  round  on  me,  because  there's  nobody  else." 

"  It's  very  easy  for  some  to  keep  their  tempers,  and  be 
soft-spoken,  Mrs.  Richards,"  returned  Susan,  slightly  molli- 
fied, "  when  their  child's  made  as  much  of  as  a  prince,  and 
is  petted  and  patted  till  it  Avishes  its  friends  further  ;  but 
when  a  sweet  young  pretty  innocent,  that  never  ought  to 
have  a  cross  word  spoken  to  or  of  it,  is  run  down,  the  case  is 
very  different  indeed.  My  goodness  gracious  me,  Miss  Floy, 
you  naughty,  sinful  child,  if  you  don't  shut  your  eyes  this 
minute,  I'll  call  in  them  hobgoblins  that  lives  in  the  cock-loft 
to  come  and  eat  you  up  alive  !  " 

Here  Miss  Nipper  made  a  horrible  lowing,  supposed  to 
issue  from  a  conscientious  goblin  of  the  bull  species,  impa- 
tient to  discharge  the  severe  duty  of  his  position.  Having 
further  composed  her  young  charge  by  covering  her  head 
with  the  bed-clothes,  and  making  three  or  four  angry  dabs 
at  the  pillow,  she  folded  her  arms,  and  screwed  up  her  mouth, 
and  sat  looking  at  the  fire  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Though  little  Paul  was  said,  in  nursery  phrase,  "  to  take 
a  deal  of  notice  for  his  age,"  he  took  as  little  notice  of  all 
this  as  of  the  preparations  for  his  christening  on  the  next  day 
but  one;  which  nevertheless  went  on  about  him,  as  to  his  per- 
sonal apparel,  and  that  of  his  sister  and  the  two  nurses,  with 
great  activity.  Neither  did  he,  on  the  arrival  of  the  appointed 
morning,  show  any  sense  of  its  importance;  being,  on  the 
contrary,  unusually  inclined  to  sleep,  and  unusually  inclined 
to  take  it  ill  in  his  attendants  that  they  dressed  him  to  go  out. 

It  happened  to  be  an  iron-gray  autumnal  day, with  a  shrewd 
east  wind  blowing — a  day  in  keeping  with  the  proceedings. 
Mr.  Dombey  represented  in  himself  the  wind,  the  shade,  and 
the  autumn  of  the  christening.  He  stood  in  his  library  to  re- 
ceive the  company,  as  hard  and  cold  as  the  weather  ;  and 
when  he  looked  out  through  the  glass  room,  at  the  trees  in 
the  little  garden,  their  brown  and  yellow  leaves  came  flutter- 
ing down,  as  if  he  blighted  them. 


62  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Ugh  !  They  were  black,  cold  rooms  ;  and  seemed  to  be 
in  mourning,  like  the  inmates  of  the  house.  The  books  pre- 
cisely matched  as  to  size,  and  drawn  up  in  line,  like  soldiers, 
looked,  in  their  cold,  hard,  slippery  uniforms,  as  if  they  had 
but  one  idea  among  them,  and  that  was  a  freezer.  The  book- 
case, glazed  and  locked,  repudiated  all  familiarities.  Mr. 
Pitt,  in  bronze  on  the  top,  with  no  trace  of  his  celestial  origin 
about  him,  guarded  the  unattainable  treasure  like  an  en- 
chanted Moor.  A  dusty  urn  at  each  high  corner,  dug  up 
from  an  ancient  tomb,  preached  desolation  and  decay,  as 
from  two  pulpits  ;  and  the  chimney  glass,  reflecting  Mr. 
Dombey  and  his  portrait  at  one  blow,  seemed  fraught  with 
melancholy  meditations. 

The  stiff  and  stark  fire-irons  appeared  to  claim  a  nearer 
relationship  than  any  thing  else  there  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his 
buttoned  coat,  his  white  cravat,  his  heavy  gold  watch-chain, 
and  his  creaking  boots.  But  this  was  before  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick,  his  lawful  relatives,  who  soon  presented 
themselves. 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  Mrs.  Chick  murmured,  as  she  embraced 
him,  "  the  beginning,  I  hope,  of  many  joyful  days  !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  grimly.  "  How 
do  you  do,  Mr.  John  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?"  said  Chick. 

He  gave  Mr.  Dombey  hishand,  as  if  he  feared  it  might  elec- 
trify him.  Mr.  Dombey  took  it  as  if  it  were  a  fish,  or  sea- 
weed, or  some  such  clammy  substance,  and  immediately 
returned  it  to  him  with  exalted  politeness. 

"  Perhaps,  Louisa,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  slightly  turning  his 
head  in  his  cravat,  as  if  it  were  a  socket,  ''  you  would  have 
preferred  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Paul,  no,''  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  had  much 
ado  to  keep  her  teeth  from  chattering  ;  "  not  for  me." 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  are  not  sensible  of 
any  chill  ? " 

Mr.  John,  who  had  already  got  both  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  over  the  wrists,  and  was  on  the  very  threshold  of  that 
same  canine  chorus  which  had  given  Mrs.  Chick  so  much 
offense  on  a  former  occasion,  protested  that  he  was  perfectly 
comfortable. 

He  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  With  my  tiddle  tol  toor  rul  " 
— when  he  was  providentially  stopped  by  Towlinson,  who 
announced  : 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  62, 

"  Miss   Tox  !  " 

And  enter  that  fair  enslaver,  with  a  blue  nose'and  indescrib- 
ably frosty  face,  referable  to  her  being  very  thinly  clad  in  a 
maze  of  fluttering  odds  and  ends,  to  do  honor  to  the 
ceremony. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Tox  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Miss  Tox,  in  the  midst  of  her  spreading  gauzes,  went  down 
altogether  like  an  opera-glass  shutting  up  ;  she  courtesied  so 
low,  in  acknowledgment  of  Mr.  Dombey' s  advancing  a  step  or 
two  to  meet  her. 

"  I  can  never  forget  this  occasion,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
softly.  "  'Tis  impossible.  My  dear  Louisa,  I  can  hardly 
believe  the  evidence  of  my  senses." 

If  Miss  Tox  could  believe  the  evidence  of  one  of  her  senses, 
it  was  a  very  cold  day.  That  was  quite  clear.  She  took  an 
early  opportunity  of  promoting  the  circulation  in  the  tip  of 
her  nose  by  secretly  chafing  it  with  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
lest,  by  its  very  low  temperature,  it  should  disagreeably  aston- 
ish the  baby  when  she  came  to  kiss  it. 

The  baby  soon  appeared,  carried  in  great  glory  by  Rich- 
ards ;  while  Florence,  in  custody  of  that  active  young  con- 
stable, Susan  Nipper,  brought  up  the  rear.  Though  the  whole 
nursery  party  were  dressed  by  this  time  in  lighter  mourning 
than  at  first,  there  was  enough  in  the  appearance  of  the  be- 
reaved children  to  make  the  day  no  brighter.  The  baby  too — 
it  might  have  been  Miss  Tox's  nose — began  to  cry.  Thereby, 
as  it  happened,  preventing  Mr.  Chick  from  the  awkward  ful- 
fillment of  a  very  honest  purpose  he  had  ;  which  was,  to  make 
much  of  Florence.  For  this  gentleman,  insensible  to  the 
superior  claims  of  a  perfect  Dombey  (perhaps  on  account  of 
having  the  honor  to  be  united  to  a  Dombey  himself.and  being 
familiar  with  excellence),  really  liked  her,  and  showed  that 
he  liked  her,  and  was  about  to  show  it  in  his  own  way  now, 
when  Paul  cried,  and  his  helpmate  stopped  him  short. 

"  Now,  Florence,  child  !  "  said  her  aunt,  briskly,  ^'  what 
are  you  doing,  love  ?  Show  yourself  to  him.  Engage  his 
attention,  my  dear  !  " 

The  atmosphere  became  or  might  have  become  colder 
and  colder,  when  Mr.  Dombey  stood  frigidly  watching  his 
little  daughter,  who,  clapping  her  hands,  and  standing  on 
tiptoe  before  the  throne  of  his  son  and  heir,  lured  him  to 
bend  down  from  his  high  estate,  and  look  at  her.  Some 
honest  act  of  Richards's  may  have  aided   the  effect,   but  he 


64  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

did  look  down,  and  held  his  peace.  As  his  sister  hid  behind 
her  nurse,  he  followed  her  with  his  eyes  ;  and  when  she 
peeped  out  with  a  merry  cry  to  him,  he  sprang  up  and  crowed 
lustily — laughing  outright  when  she  ran  in  upon  him  ;  and 
seeming  to  fondle  her  curls  with  his  tiny  hands,  while  she 
smothered  him  with  kisses. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey  pleased  to  see  this  ?  He  testified  no 
pleasure  by  the  relaxation  of  a  nerve  ;  but  outward  tokens 
of  any  kind  of  feeling  were  unusual  with  him.  If  any  sun- 
beam stole  into  the  room  to  light  the  children  at  their  play, 
it  never  reached  his  face.  He  looked  on  so  fixedly  and 
coldly,  that  the  warm  light  vanished  even  from  the  laughing 
eyes  of  little  Florence,  when,  at  last,  they  happened  to  meet 
his. 

It  was  a  dull,  gray,  autumn  day  indeed,  and  in  a  minute's 
pause  and  silence  that  took  place,  the  leaves  fell  sorrowfully. 

''  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  referring  to  his  watch, 
and  assuming  his  hat  and  gloves.  "  Take  my  sister,  if  you 
please  :  my  arm  to-day  is  Miss  Tox's.  You  had  better  go 
first  with  Master  Paul,  Richards.     Be  very  careful." 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  carriage,  Dombey  and  Son,  Miss  Tox, 
Mrs.  Chick,  Richards,  and  Florence.  In  a  little  carriage 
following  it,  Susan  Nipper  and  the  owner,  Mr.  Chick.  Susan 
looking  out  of  window,  without  intermission,  as  a  relief  from 
the  embarrassment  of  confronting  the  large  face  of  that 
gentleman,  and  thinking  whenever  any  thing  rattled  that  he 
was  putting  up  in  paper  an  appropriate  pecuniary  compli- 
ment for  herself. 

Once  upon  the  road  to  church,  Mr.  Dombey  clapped  his 
hands  for  the  amusement  of  his  son.  At  which  instance  of 
parental  enthusiasm  Miss  Tox  was  enchanted.  But  exclus- 
ive of  this  incident,  the  chief  difference  between  the  chris- 
tening party  and  a  party  in  a  mourning  coach,  consisted  in 
the  colors  of  the  carriage  and  horses. 

Arrived  at  the  church  steps,  they  were  received  by  a  por- 
tentous beadle.  Mr.  Dombey  dismounting  first  to  help  the 
ladies  out,  and  standing  near  him  at  the  church  door,  looked 
like  another  beadle.  A  beadle  less  gorgeous  but  more 
dreadful  ;  the  beadle  of  private  life  ;  the  beadle  of  our  bus- 
iness and  our  bosoms. 

Miss  Tox's  hand  trembled  as  she  slipped  it  through  Mr. 
Dombey's  arm,  and  felt  herself  escorted  up  the  steps,  pre- 
ceded by  a  cocked  hat  and  a  Babylonian  collar.     It  seemed 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  65 

for  a  moment  like  that  other  solemn  institution,  "  Wilt  thou 
have  this  man,  Lucretia  ?  "  "Yes,  I  will." 

"  Please  to  bring  the  child  in  quick  out  of  the  air  there," 
whispered  the  beadle,  holding  open  the  inner  door  of  the 
church. 

Little  Paul  might  have  asked  with  Hamlet  "  into  my 
grave  ?  "  so  chill  and  earthy  was  the  place.  The  tall  shrouded 
pulpit  and  reading-desk  ;  the  dreary  perspective  of  empty 
pev/s  stretching  away  under  the  galleries,  and  empty  benches 
mounting  to  the  roof  and  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  great 
grim  organ  ;  the  dusty  matting  and  cold  stone  slabs  ;  the 
grizzly  free  seats  in  the  aisles  ;  and  the  damp  corner  by  the 
bell-rope,  where  the  black  tressles  used  for  funerals  were 
stowed  away,  along  with  some  shovels  and  baskets,  and  a 
coil  or  two  of  deadly-looking  rope  ;  the  strange,  unusual, 
uncomfortable  smell,  and  the  cadaverous  light  ;  were  all 
in  unison.     It  was  a  cold  and  dismal  scene. 

"There's  a  wedding  just  on,  sir,"  said  the  beadle,  "but 
it'll  be  over  directly,  if  you'll  walk  into  the  westry  here." 

Before  he  turned  again  to  lead  the  way,  he  gave  Mr. 
Dombey  a  bow  and  a  half  smile  of  recognition,  importing 
that  he  (the  beadle)  remembered  to  have  had  the  pleasure  of 
attending  on  him  when  he  buried  his  wife,  and  hoped  he  had 
enjoyed  himself  since. 

The  very  wedding  looked  dismal  as  they  passed  in  front  of 
the  altar.  The  bride  was  too  old  and  the  bridegroom  too 
young,  and  a  superannuated  beau  with  one  eye  and  an  eye- 
glass stuck  in  its  blank  companion,  was  giving  away  the  lady, 
while  the  friends  were  shivering.  In  the  vestry  the  fire  was 
smoking  ;  and  an  overaged  and  overworked  and  underpaid 
attorney's  clerk,  "  making  a  search,"  was  running  his  fore- 
finger down  the  parchment  pages  of  an  immense  register  (one 
of  a  long  series  of  similar  volumes)  gorged  with  burials. 
Over  the  fire-place  was  a  ground-plan  of  the  vaults  under- 
neath the  church  ;  and  Mr.  Chick,  skimming  the  literary  por- 
tion of  it  aloud,  by  way  of  enlivening  the  company,  read  the 
reference  to  Mrs.  Dombey's  tomb  in  full,  before  he  could  stop 
himself. 

After  another  cold  interval,  a  wheezy  little  pew-opener 
afflicted  with  an  asthma,  appropriate  to  the  church-yard,  if 
not  to  the  church,  summoned  them  to  the  font.  Here  they 
waited  some  little  time  while  the  marriage  party  enrolled 
themselves  ;  and  meanwhile  the  wheezy  little  pew-opener — 


66  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

partly  in  consequence  of  her  infirmity,  and  partly  that  the 
marriage  party  might  not  forget  her — went  about  the  build- 
ing coughing  like  a  grampus. 

Presently  the  clerk  (the  only  cheerful-looking  object  there, 
and  he  was  an  undertaker)  came  up  with  a  jug  of  warm 
water,  and  said  something,  as  he  poured  it  into  the  font, 
about  taking  the  chill  off  ;  which  millions  of  gallons  boiling 
hot  could  not  have  done  for  the  occasion.  Then  the  clergy- 
man, an  amiable  and  mild-looking  young  curate,  but  obvi- 
ously afraid  of  the  baby,  appeared  like  the  principal  char- 
acter in  a  ghost-story,  "  a  tall  figure  all  in  white  ;  "  at  sight 
of  whom  Paul  rent  the  air  with  his  cries,  and  never  left  off 
again  till  he  was  taken  out  black  in  the  face. 

Even  when  that  event  had  happened,  to  the  great  relief 
of  every  body,  he  was  heard  under  the  portico,  during  the 
rest  of  the  ceremony,  now  fainter,  now  louder,  now  hushed, 
now  bursting  forth  again  with  an  irrepressible  sense  of  his 
wrongs.  This  so  distracted  the  attention  of  the  two  ladies, 
that  Mrs.  Chick  was  constantly  deploying  into  the  center 
aisle,  to  send  out  messages  by  the  pew-opener,  while  Miss  Tox 
kept  her  Prayer-book  open  at  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  and 
occasionally  read  responses  from  that  service. 

During  the  whole  of  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dombey 
remained  as  impassive  and  gentlemanly  as  ever,  and  perhaps 
assisted  in  making  it  so  cold,  that  the  young  curate  smoked 
at  the  mouth  as  he  read.  The  only  time  that  he  unbent  his 
visage  in  the  least,  was  when  the  clergyman,  in  delivering 
(very  unafi^ectedly  and  simply)  the  closing  exhortation, 
relative  to  the  future  examination  of  the  child  by  the  spon- 
sors, happened  to  rest  his  eye  on  Mr.  Chick  ;  and  then  Mr. 
Dombey  might  have  been  seen  to  express  by  a  majestic  look, 
that  he  would  like  to  catch  him  at  it. 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had 
thought  of  his  own  dignity  a  little  less  ;  and  had  thought  of 
the  great  origin  and  purpose  of  the  ceremony  in  which  he 
took  so  formal  and  so  stiff  a  part,  a  little  more.  His  arro- 
gance contrasted  strangely  with  its  history. 

When  it  was  all  over,  he  again  gave  his  arm  to  Miss  Tox, 
and  conducted  her  to  the  vestry,  where  he  informed  the 
clergyman  how  much  pleasure  it  would  have  given  him  to 
have  solicited  the  honor  of  his  company  at  dinner,  but  for 
the  unfortunate  state  of  his  household  affairs.  The  register 
signed,  and  the  fees  paid,  and  the  pew-opener  (whose  cough 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  67 

was  very  bad  again)  remembered,  and  the  beadle  gratified, 
and  the  sexton  (who  was  accidentally  on  the  door-steps, 
looking  with  great  interest  at  the  weather)  not  forgotten,  they 
got  into  the  carriage  again,  and  drove  home  in  the  same 
bleak  fellowship. 

There  they  found  Mr.  Pitt  turning  up  his  nose  at  a  cold 
collation,  set  forth  in  a  cold  pomp  of  glass  and  silver,  and 
looking  more  like  a  dead  dinner  lying-in  state  than  a  social 
refreshment.  On  their  arrival.  Miss  Tox  produced  a  mug 
for  her  godson,  and  Mr.  Chick  a  knife  and  fork  and  spoon 
in  a  case.  Mr.  Dombey  also  produced  a  bracelet  for  Miss 
Tox  ;  and,  on  the  receipt  of  this  token,  Miss  Tox  was  ten- 
derly affected. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  will  you  take  the  bottom 
of  the  table,  if  vou  please.  What  have  vou  got  there,  Mr. 
John?" 

"  I  have  got  a  cold  fillet  of  veal  here,  sir,"  replied  Mr. 
Chick,  rubbing  his  numbed  hands  hard  together.  "  What 
have  yoii  got  there,  sir  ?  " 

"  This,"  returned  ^Ir.  Dombey,  "  is  some  cold  preparation 
of  calf's  head,  I  think.  I  see  cold  fowls — ham — patties — 
salad — lobster.  Miss  Tox  will  do  me  the  honor  of  taking 
some  wine  ?     Champagne  to  Miss  Tox." 

There  was  a  toothache  in  everything.  The  wine  was  s^ 
bitter  cold  that  it  forced  a  little  scream  from  Miss  Tox,  which 
she  had  great  difficulty  in  turning  into  a  "  Hem  !  "  The  veal 
had  come  from  such  an  airy  pantry,  that  the  first  taste  of  it 
had  struck  a  sensation  as  of  cold  lead  to  iVlr.  Chick's  extrem- 
ities. Mr.  Dombey  alone  remained  unmoved.  He  might 
have  been  hung  up  for  sale  at  a  Russian  fair  as  ?.  specimen  of 
a  frozen  gentleman. 

The  prevailing  influence  was  too  much  even  for  his  sister. 
She  made  no  effort  at  flattery  or  small  talk,  and  directed  all 
her  efforts  to  looking  as  warm  as  she  could. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  making  a  desperate  plunge, 
after  a  long  silence,  and  filling  a  glass  of  sherry  ;  "  I  shall 
drink  this,  if  you'll  allow  me,  sir,  to  little  Paul." 

"  Bless  him  !  "  murmured  Miss  Tox,  taking  a  sip  of 
wine. 

"  Dear  little  Dombey  !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Mr.  John,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  severe  gravity,  "  my 
son  would  feel  and  express  himself  obliged  to  you,  I  have  no 
doubt,  if  he  could  appreciate  the  favor  you  have  done  him. 


6S  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

He  will  prove,  in  time  to  come,  I  trust,  equal  to  any  respon- 
sibility that  the  obliging  disposition  of  his  relations  and 
friends,  in  private,  or  the  onerous  nature  of  our  position,  in 
public,  may  impose  upon  him." 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  said  admitting  of  nothing  more, 
Mr.  Chick  relapsed  into  low  spirits  and  silence.  Not  so  Miss 
Tox,  who,  having  listened  to  Mr.  Dombey  with  even  a  more 
emphatic  attention  than  usual,  and  with  a  more  expressive 
tendency  of  her  head  to  one  side,  now  leaned  across  the 
table,  and  said  to  Mrs.  Chick,  softly  : 

"  Louisa  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Onerous  nature  of  our  position  in  public  may — I  have 
forgotten  the  exact  term." 

"  Expose  him  to,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  returned  Miss  Tox,  "  I  think  not. 
It  was  more  rounded  and  flowing.  Obliging  disposition  of 
relations  and  friends  in  private,  or  onerous  nature  of  position 
in  public — may — impose  upon  him  !  " 

*'  Impose  upon  him,  to  be  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  struck  her  delicate  hands  together  lightly,  in 
triumph  ;  and  added,  casting  up  her  eyes,  *'  eloquence 
indeed  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  issued  orders  for 
the  attendance  of  Richards,  who  now  entered  courtesying, 
but  without  the  baby — Paul  being  asleep  after  the  fatigues 
of  the  morning.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  delivered  a  glass  of 
wine  to  this  vassal,  addressed  her  in  the  following  words  : 
Miss  Tox  previously  settling  her  head  on  one  side,  and 
making  other  little  arrangements  for  engraving  them  on  her 
heart. 

"  During  the  six  months  or  so,  Richards,  which  have  seen 
you  an  inmate  of  this  house,  you  have  done  your  duty. 
Desiring  to  connect  some  little  service  to  you  with  this  occa- 
sion, I  considered  how  I  could  best  effect  that  object,  and  I 
also  advised  with  my  sister,  Mrs. " 

"Chick,"  interposed  the  gentleman  of  that  name. 

"  Oh,  hush  if  yovi please  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,  Richards,"  resumed  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, with  an  appalling  glance  at  Mr.  John,  "  that  I  was 
further  assisted  in  my  decision,  by  the  recollection  of  a  con- 
versation I  held  with  your  husband  in  this  room,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  your  being  hired,  when  he  disclosed  to  me  the  mei- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  69 

ancholy  fact  that  your  family,  himself  at  the  head,  were 
sunk  and  steeped  in  ignorance." 

Richards  quailed  under  the  magnificence  of  the  reproof. 

"  I  am  far  from  being  friendly,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to 
what  is  called  by  persons  of  leveling  sentiments,  general  edu- 
cation. But  it  is  necessary  that  the  inferior  classes  should 
continue  to  be  taught  to  know  their  position,  and  to  conduct 
themselves  properly.  So  far  I  approve  of  schools.  Having 
the  power  of  nominating  a  child  on  the  foundation  of  an 
ancient  establishment,  called  (from  a  worshipful  company) 
the  Charitable  Grinders  ;  where  not  only  is  a  wholesome  edu- 
cation bestowed  upon  the  scholars,,  but  where  a  dress  and 
badge  is  likewise  provided  for  them  ;  I  have  (first  communi- 
cating, through  Mrs.  Chick,  with  your  family)  nominated 
your  eldest  son  to  an  existing  vacancy  ;  and  he  has  this  day, 
I  am  informed,  assumed  the  habit.  The  number  of  her  son, 
I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  to  his  sister  and  speak- 
ing of  the  child  as  if  he  were  a  hackney-coach,  "  is  one  hund- 
red and   forty-seven.     Louisa,  you  can  tell  her." 

"  One  hundred  and  forty-seven,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  *  "  The 
dress,  Richards,  is  a  nice,  warm,  blue  baize  tailed  coat  and 
cap,  turned  up  with  orange-colored  binding  ;  red  worsted 
stockings  ;  and  very  strong  leather  small-clothes.  One  might 
wear  the  articles  one's  self,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  enthusi- 
asm, "  and  be  grateful." 

'' There,  Richards  !  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  Now,  indeed,  you 
viay  be  proud.     The  Charitable  Grinders  !  " 

''  I  am  sure  I  am  very  much  obliged,  sir,"  returned  Rich- 
ards, faintly,  "  and  take  it  very  kindly  that  you  should 
remember  my  little  ones."  At  the  same  time  a  vision  of 
Biler  as  a  Charitable  Grinder,  with  his  very  small  legs 
incased  in  the  serviceable  clothing  described  by  Mrs.  Chick, 
swam  before  Richards's  eyes,  and  made  them  water. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  have  so  much  feeling,  Rich- 
ards," said  Miss  Tox. 

"  It  makes  one  almost  hope,  it  really  does,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  who  prided  herself  on  taking  trustful  views  of  human 
nature,  "  that  there  may  yet  be  some  faint  spark  of  gratitude 
and  right  feeling  in  the  world." 

Richards  deferred  to  these  compliments  by  courtesying  and 
murmuring  her  thanks  ;  but  finding  it  quite  impossible  to 
recover  her  spirits  from  the  disorder  into  which  they  had 
been  thrown  by  the  image  of  her  son  in  his  precocious  nether 


70  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

garmentSjShe  gradually  approached  the  door  and  was  heartily 
relieved  to  escape  by  it. 

Such  temporary  indications  of  a  partial  thaw  that  had 
appeared  with  her,  vanished  with  her ;  and  the  frost  set  in 
again,  as  cold  and  hard  as  ever.  Mr.  Chick  was  twice  heard 
to  hum  a  tune  at  the  bottom  of  the  table,  but  on  both  occa- 
sions it  was  a  fragment  of  the  Dead  March  in  Saul.  The 
party  seemed  to  get  colder  and  colder,  and  to  be  gradually 
resolving  itself  into  a  congealed  and  solid  state,  like  the  col- 
lation round  which  it  was  assembled.  At  length  Mrs.  Chick 
looked  at  Miss  Tox,  and  Miss  Tox  returned  the  look,  and 
they  both  rose  and  said  .it  was  really  time  to  go.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  receiving  this  announcement  with  perfect  equanimity, 
they  took  leave  of  that  gentleman,  and  presently  departed 
under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Chick  ;  who,  when  they  had 
turned  their  backs  upon  the  house  and  left  its  master  in  his 
usual  solitary  state,  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  threw  him- 
self back  in  the  carriage,  and  whistled,  "  With  a  hey  ho 
chevy  !  "  all  through  ;  conveying  into  his  face  a* he  did  so, 
an  expression  of  such  gloomy  and  terrible  defiance,  that  Mrs. 
Chick  dared  not  protest,  or  in  any  way  molest  him. 

Richards,  though  she  had  little  Paul  on  her  lap,  could  not 
forget  her  own  first-born.  She  felt  it  was  ungrateful  ;  but 
the  influence  of  the  day  fell  even  on  the  Charitable  Grind- 
ers, and  she  could  hardly  help  regarding  his  pewter  badge, 
number  one  hundred  and  forty-seven,  as,  somehow,  a  part  of 
its  formality  and  sternness.  She  spoke,  too,  in  the  nursery,  of 
his  "  blessed  legs,"  and  was  again  troubled  by  his  specter  in 
uniform. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  wouldn't  give,"  said  Polly,  "  to  see 
the  poor  little  dear  before  he  gets  used  to  'em." 

"Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Richards,"  retorted 
Nipper,  who  had  been  admitted  to  her  confidence,  "  see  him 
and  make  your  mind  easy." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  wouldn't  like  it,"  said  Polly. 

"Oh  wouldn't  he,  Mrs.  Richards  !  "  retorted  Nipper,  "  he'd 
like  it  very  much,  I  think,  when  he  was  asked." 

"  You  wouldn't  ask  him,  I  suppose,  at  all  ? "  said 
Polly. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Richards,  quite  contrairy,"  returned  Susan, 
"  and  them  two  inspectors  Tox  and  Chick,  not  intending  to 
be  on  duty  to-morrow,  as  I  heard  'em  say,  me  and  Miss  Floy 
will  go   along  with  you  to-morrow  morning,   and  welcome, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  71 

Mrs.  Richards,  if  you  like,  for  we  may  as  well  walk  there,  as 
up  and  doAvn  a  street,  and  better  too." 

Polly  rejected  the  idea  pretty  stoutly  at  first  ;  but  by  little 
and  little  she  began  to  entertain  it,  as  she  entertained  more 
and  more  distinctly  the  forbidden  pictures  of  her  children, 
and  her  own  home.  At  length,  arguing  that  there  could  be 
no  great  harm  in  calling  for  a  moment  at  the  door,  she 
yielded  to  the  Nipper  proposition. 

The  matter  being  settled  thus,  little  Paul  began  to  cry 
most  piteously,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  no  good  would 
come  of  it. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  child  ? "  asked  Susan. 

"  He's  cold,  I  think,"  said  Polly,  walking  with  him  to  and 
fro,  and  hushing  him. 

It  was  a  bleak  autumnal  afternoon  indeed  ;  and  as  she 
walked,  and  hushed,  and,  glancing  through  the  dreary  win- 
dows, pressed  the  little  fellow  closer  to  her  breast,  the  with- 
ered leaves  came  showering  down. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Paul's  second  deprivation. 

Polly  was  beset  by  so  many  misgivings  in  the  morning, 
that  but  for  the  incessant  promptings  of  her  black-eyed  com- 
panion, she  would  have  abandoned  all  thoughts  of  the  expe- 
dition, and  formally  petitioned  for  leave  to  see  number  one 
hundred  and  forty-seven,  under  the  awful  shadow  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  roof.  But  Susan,  who  was  personally  disposed  in 
favor  of  the  excursion,  and  who  (like  Tony  Lumpkin),  if  she 
could  bear  the  disappointments  of  other  people  with  tolerable 
fortitude,  could  not  abide  to  disappoint  herself,  threw  so 
many  ingenious  doubts  in  the  w^ay  of  this  second  thought, 
and  stimulated  the  original  intention  with  so  many  ingenious 
arguments,that  almost  as  soon  as  Mr.  Dombey's  stately  back 
was  turned,  and  that  gentleman  was  pursuing  his  daily  road 
toward  the  City,  his  unconscious  son  was  on  his  way  to 
Staggs's  Gardens. 

This  euphonious  locality  was  situated  in  a  suburb,  known 
by  the  inhabitants  of  Staggs's  Gardens  by  the  name  of  Cam- 
berling  Town  ;  a  designation  which  the  Strangers'  Map  of 
London,  as  printed,   (with  a  view  to  pleasant  and    commo- 


72  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

dious  reference)  on  pocket-handkerchiefs,  condenses,  with 
some  show  of  reason,  into  Camden  Town.  Hither  the  two 
nurses  bent  their  steps,  accompanied  by  their  charges ; 
Richards  carrying  Paul,  of  course,  and  Susan  leading  little 
Florence  by  the  hand,  and  giving  her  such  jerks  and  pokes 
from  time  to  time,  as  she  considered  it  wholesome  to 
administer. 

The  first  shock  of  a  great  earthquake  had,  just  at  that 
period,  rent  the  whole  neighborhood  to  its  center.  Traces 
of  its  course  were  visible  on  every  side.  Houses  were  knocked 
down  ;  streets  broken  through  and  stopped  ;  deep  pits  and 
trenches  dug  in  the  ground  ;  enormous  heaps  of  earth  and 
clay  thrown  up  ;  buildings  that  were  undermined  and  shak- 
ing, propped  by  great  beams  of  wood.  Here,  a  chaos  of 
carts,  overthrown  and  'jumbled  together,  lay  topsy-turvy  at 
the  bottom  of  a  steep,  unnatural  hill  ;  there,  confused  treas- 
ures of  iron  soaked  and  rusted  in  something  that  had  acci- 
dentally become  a  pond.  Everywhere  were  bridges  that  led 
nowhere  ;  thoroughfares  that  were  wholly  impassable  ;  Babel 
towers  of  chimneys,  wanting  half  their  height  ;  temporary 
wooden  houses  and  inclosures,  in  the  most  unlikely  situa- 
tions ;  carcasses  of  ragged  tenements,  and  fragments  of 
unfinished  walls  and  arches,  and  piles  of  scaffolding,  and 
wildernesses  of  bricks,  and  giant  forms  of  cranes,  and  tripods 
straddling  above  nothing.  There  were  a  hundred  thousand 
shapes  and  substances  of  incompleteness,  wildly  mingled  out 
of  their  places,  upside  down,  burrowing  in  the  earth,  aspiring 
ni  the  air,  moldering  in  the  water,  and  unintelligible  as  any 
dream.  Hot  springs  and  fiery  eruptions,  the  usual  attend- 
ants upon  earthquakes,  lent  their  contributions  of  confusion 
to  the  scene.  Boiling  water  hissed  and  heaved  within  dilapi- 
dated walls  ;  whence,  also,  the  glare  and  roar  of  flames  came 
issuing  forth  ;  and  mounds  of  ashes  blocked  up  rights  o^" 
way,  and  wholly  changed  the  law  and  custom  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

In  short,  the  yet  unfinished  and  unopened  railroad  was  in 
progress  ;  and,  from  the  very  core  of  all  this  dire  disorder, 
trailed  smoothly  away,  upon  its  mighty  course  of  civilization 
and  improvement. 

But  as  yet,  the  neighborhood  was  shy  to  own  the  railroad. 
One  or  two  bold  speculators  had  projected  streets  ;  and  one 
had  built  a  little,  but  had  stopped  among  the  mud  and  ashes 
to  consider  further  of  it.     A  brand-new  tavern,  redolent  of 


BOMBEY   AND   SON.  73 

fresh  mortar  and  size,  and  fronting  nothing  at  all,  had  taken 
for  its  sign  The  Railway  Arms  ;  but  that  might  be  rash 
enterprise — and  then  it  hoped  to  sell  drink  to  the  workmen. 
So,  the  Excavators'  House  of  Call  had  sprung  up  from  a  beer- 
shop  ;  and  the  old-established  Ham  and  Beef  Shop  had 
become  the  Railway  Eating-house,  with  a  roast  leg  of  pork 
daily,  through  interested  motives  of  a  similar  immediate  and 
popular  description.  Lodging-house  keepers  were  favorable 
in  like  manner  ;  and  for  the  like  reasons  were  not  to  be 
trusted.  The  general  belief  was  very  slov/.  There  were 
frowzy  fields,  and  cow-houses,  and  dung-hills,  and  dust- 
heaps,  and  ditches,  and  gardens,  and  summer-houses,  and 
carpet-beating  grounds,  at  the  very  door  of  the  railway. 
Little  tumuli  of  oyster  shells  in  the  oyster  season,  and  of 
lobster  shells  in  the  lobster  season,  and  of  broken  crockery 
and  faded  cabbage-leaves  in  all  seasons,  encroached  upon  its 
high  places.  Posts,  and  rails,  and  old  cautions  to  trespassers, 
and  backs  of  mean  houses,  and  patches  of  mean  vegetation, 
stared  it  out  of  countenance.  Nothing  was  the  better  for  it, 
or  thought  of  being  so.  If  the  miserable  waste  ground  lying 
near  it  could  have  laughed,  it  would  have  laughed  it  to  scorn, 
like  many  of  the  miserable  neighbors. 

Staggs's  Gardens  was  uncommonly  incredulous.  It  was  a 
little  row  of  houses,  with  little  squalid  patches  of  ground 
before  them,  fenced  off  with  old  doors,  barrel-staves,  scraps 
of  tarpaulin,  and  dead  bushes  ;  with  bottomless  tin  kettles 
and  exhausted  iron  fenders,  thrust  into  the  gaps.  Here  the 
Staggs's  Gardeners  trained  scarlet  beans,  kept  fowls  and  rab- 
bits, erected  rotten  summer-houses  (one  was  an  old  boat), 
dried  clothes,  and  smoked  pipes.  Some  were  of  opinion  that 
Staggs's  Gardens  derived  its  name  from  a  deceased  capitalist, 
one  Mr.  Staggs,  who  had  built  it  for  his  delectation.  Oth- 
ers, who  had  a  natural  taste  for  the  country,  held  that  it 
dated  from  those  rural  times  when  the  antlered  herd,  under 
the  familiar  denomination  of  Staggses,  had  resorted  to  its 
shady  precincts.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Staggs's  Gardens  was 
regarded  by  its  population  as  a  sacred  grove  not  to  be  with- 
ered by  railroads  ;  and  so  confident  w^ere  they  of  its  long 
outliving  any  such  ridiculous  inventions,  that  the  master 
chimney-sweeper  at  the  ©orner,  who  was  understood  to  take 
the  lead  in  the  local  politics  of  the  Gardens,  had  publicly 
declared  that  on  the  occasion  of  the  railroad  opening,  if  ever 
it  did  open,  two  of  his  boys   should  ascend  the  flues  of  his 


74  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

dwelling,  with  instructions  to  hail  the  failure  with  derisive 
jeers  from  the  chimney-pots. 

To  this  unhallowed  spot,  the  very  name  of  which  had 
hitherto  been  carefully  concealed  from  Mr.  Dombey  by  his 
sister,  was  little  Paul  now  borne  by  Fate  and  Richards. 

"  That's  my  house,  Susan,"  said  Polly,  pointing  it  out. 

"  Is  it,  indeed,   Mrs.  Richards,"   said  Susan,  condescend- 

"  And  there's  my  sister  Jemima  at  the  door,  I  do  declare  !" 
cried  Polly,  "  with  my  own  sweet  precious  baby  in  her 
arms  ! 

The  sight  added  such  an  extensive  pair  of  wings  to  Polly's 
impatience,  that  she  set  off  down  the  Gardens  at  a  run, 
and  bouncing  on  Jemima,  changed  babies  with  her  in  a 
twinkling  ;  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  that  young  damsel, 
on  whom  the  heir  of  the  Dombeys  seemed  to  have  fallen 
from  the  clouds. 

"  Why,  Polly  !  "  cried  Jemima.  "  You  !  what  a  turn  you 
have  given  me  !  who'd  have  thought  it  !  come  along  in, 
Polly  !  How  well  you  do  look,  to  be  sure  !  The  children 
will  go  half  wild  to  see  you,  Polly,  that  they  will." 

That  they  did,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  noise  they 
made,  and  the  way  in  which  they  dashed  at  Polly  and 
dragged  her  to  a  low  chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  where  her 
own  honest  apple  face  became  immediately  the  center  of  a 
bunch  of  smaller  pippins,  all  laying  their  rosy  cheeks  close 
to  it,  and  all  evidently  the  growth  of  the  same  tree.  As  to 
Polly,  she  was  full  as  noisy  and  vehement  as  the  children  ; 
and  it  was  not  until  she  was  quite  out  of  breath,  and  her 
hair  was  hanging  all  about  her  flushed  face,  and  her  new 
christening  attire  was  very  much  disheveled,  that  any  pause 
took  place  in  the  confusion.  Even  then,  the  smallest  Toodle 
but  one  remained  in  her  lap,  holding  on  tight  with  both  arms 
round  her  neck  ;  while  the  smallest  Toodle  but  two  mounted 
on  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  made  desperate  efforts,  with 
one  leg  in  the  air,  to  kiss  her  round  the  corner. 

"  Look  !  there's  a  pretty  little  lady  come  to  see  you,"  said 
Polly  ;  "  and  see  how  quiet  sAe  is  !  what  a  beautiful  little 
lady,  ain't  she  !  " 

This  reference  to  Florence,  who  had  been  standing  by  the 
door  not  unobservant  of  what  passed,  directed  the  attention 
of  the  younger  branches  toward  her  ;  and  had  likewise  the 
happy  effect   of  leading   to   the  formal  recognition  of  Miss 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  75 

Nipper,  who  was  not  quite  free  from  a  misgiving  that  she 
had  been  already  slighted. 

"  Oh  do  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute,  Susan,  please," 
said  Polly.  "  This  is  my  sister  Jemima,  this  is.  Jemima,  I 
don't  know  what  I  should  ever  do  with  myself,  if  it  wasn't  for 
Susan  Nipper  ;  I  shouldn't  be  here  now  but  for  her." 

"  Oh  do  sit  down,  Miss  Nipper,  if  you  please,"  quoth  Jem- 
ima. 

Susan  took  the  extreme  corner  of  a  chair,  with  a  stately  and 
ceremonious  aspect. 

"  I  never  was  so  glad  to  see  any  body  in  all  my  life  ;  now 
really  I  never  was.  Miss  Nipper,"  said  Jemima. 

Susan  relaxing,  took  a  little  more  of  the  chair,  and  smiled 
graciously. 

"  Do  untie  your  bonnet-strings,  and  make  yourself  at  home, 
Miss  Nipper,  please,"  entreated  Jemima.  ''  I  am  afraid  it's  a 
poorer  place  than  you're  used  to  ;  but  you'll  make  allowances, 
I'm  sure." 

The  black-eyed  was  so  softened  by  this  deferential  behav- 
ior, that  she  caught  up  little  Miss  Toodle,  who  was  running 
past,  and  took  her  to  Banbury  Cross  immediately. 

"  But  where's  my  pretty  boy  ?  "  said  Polly.  "  My  poor 
fellow  ?  I  came  all  this  way  to  see  him  in  his  new 
clothes." 

"  Ah,  what  a  pity  !  "  cried  Jemima.  "  He'll  break  his 
heart,  when  he  hears  his  mother  has  been  here.  He's  at 
school,  Polly." 

"  Gone  already  !  " 

"  Yes.  He  went  for  the  first  time  yesterday,  for  fear  he 
should  lose  any  learning.  But  it's  half-holiday,  Polly  :  if  you 
could  onlv  stop  'till  he  comes  home — you  and  Miss  Nipper, 
leastways,"  said  Jemima,  mindful  in  good  time  of  the  dignity 
of  the  black-eyed. 

"  And  how  does  he  look,  Jemima,  bless  him  !  "  faltered 
Polly. 

"Well,  really  he  don't  look  so  bad  as  you'd  suppose," 
returned  Jemima. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Polly,  with  emotion,  "  I  knew  his  legs  must  be 
too  short." 

"His  legs  is  short,"  returned  Jemima;  "especially 
behind  ;  but  they'll  get  longer,  Polly,  every  day." 

It  was  a  slow,  prospective  kind  of  consolation  ;  but  the 
cheerfulness  and  good-nature  with  which  it  was  administered 


7(5  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

gave  it  a  value  it    did    not    intrinsically  possess.     After  a 
moment's  silence,  Polly  asked,  in  a  more  sprightly  manner  : 

"  And  Where's  father,  Jemima  dear  ?  " — for  by  that  patri- 
archal appellation,   Mr.  Toodle  was  generally  known  in  the 

family. 

"  There  again  !  "  said  Jemima.  "What  a  pity!  Father 
took  his  dinner  with  him  this  morning,  and  isn't  coming  home 
till  night.  But  he's  always  talking  of  you,  Polly,  and  telling 
the  children  about  you  ;  and  is  the  peaceablest,  patientest, 
best  temperedst  soul  in  the  world,  as  he  always  was  and  will 

be  I" 

"  Thankee,  Jemima,"  cried  the  simple  Polly  ;  dehghted 
by  the  speech,  and  disappointed  by  the  absence. 

"  Oh  you  needn't  thank  me,  Polly,"  said  her  sister,  giving 
her  a  sound  kiss  upon  the  cheek,  and  then  dancing  little  Paul 
cheerfully.     "  I  say  the  same   of  you  sometimes,  and  think  it 

too." 

In  spite  of  the  double  disappointment,  it  was  impossible 
to  regard  in  the  light  of  a  failure  a  visit  which  was  greeted 
with  such  a  reception  ;  so  the  sisters  talked  hopefully  about 
family  matters,  and  about  Biler,  and  about  all  his  brothers 
and  sisters  :  while  the  black-eyed,  having  performed  several 
journeys  to  Banbury  Cross  and  back,  took  sharp  note  of  the 
furniture,  the  Dutch  clock,  the  cupboard,  the  castle  on 
the  mantle-piece  with  red  and  green  windows  in  it,  suscep- 
tible of  illumination  by  a  candle-end  within  ;  and  the  pair 
of  small  black  velvet  kittens,  each  with  a  lady's  reticule  in 
its  mouth  ;  regarded  by  the  Staggs's  Gardeners  as  prodigies 
of  imitative  art.  The  conversation  soon  becoming  general 
lest  the  black-eyed  should  go  off  at  score  and  turn  sarcastic, 
that  young  lady  related  to  Jemima  a  summary  of  every  thing 
she  knew  concerning  Mr.  Dombey,  his  prospects,  family, 
pursuits,  and  character.  Also  an  exact  inventory  of  her 
personal  wardrobe,  and  some  account  of  her  principal  rela- 
tions and  friends.  Having  relieved  her  mind  of  these  dis- 
closures, she  partook  of  shrimps  and  porter,  and  evinced  a 
disposition  to  swear  eternal  friendship. 

Little  Florence  herself  was  not  behind-hand  in  improving 
the  occasion  ;  for,  being  conducted  forth  by  the  young 
Toodles  to  inspect  some  toad-stools  and  other  curiosities  of 
the  Gardens,  she  entered  with  them,  heart  and  soul,  on  the 
formation  of  a  temporary  breakwater  across  a  small  green 
pool  that  had   collected  in  a  corner.     She  was    still  busily 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  77 

engaged  in  that  labor,  when  sought  and  found  by  Susan  ; 
who,  such  was  her  sense  of  duty,  even  under  the  humaniz- 
ing influence  of  shrimps,  dehvered  a  moral  address  to  her 
(punctuated  with  thumps)  on  her  degenerate  nature,  while 
washing  her  face  and  hands  ;  and  predicted  that  she  would 
bring  the  gray  hairs  of  her  family  in  general,  with  sorrow  to 
the  grave.  After  some  delay,  occasioned  by  a  pretty  long 
confidential  interview  above  stairs  on  pecuniary  subjects, 
between  Polly  and  Jemima,  an  interchange  of  babies  was 
again  effected — for  Polly  had  all  this  time  retained  her  own 
child,  and  Jemima  little  Paul — and  the  visitors  took  leave. 

But  first  the  young  Toodles,  victims  of  a  pious  fraud,  were 
deluded  into  repairing  in  a  body  to  a  chandler's  shop  in  the 
neighborhood,  for  the  ostensible  purpose  of  spending  a 
penny  ;  and  when  the  coast  was  quite  clear,  Polly  fled  : 
Jemima  calling  after  her  that  if  they  could  only  go  round 
toward  the  City  Road  on  their  way  back,  they  would  be  sure 
to  meet  little  Biler  coming  from  school. 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  might  make  time  to  go  a  little 
round  in  that  direction,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Polly,  when  they 
halted  to  take  breath. 

"  Why  not,  Mrs.   Richards  ?  "  returned  Susan. 

"  It's  getting  on  toward  our  dinner-time,  vou  know,"  said 
Polly. 

BiU  lunch  had  rendered  her  companion  more  than  indif- 
ferent to  this  grave  consideration,  so  she  allowed  no  weight 
to  it,  and-they  resolved  to  go  "a  little  round." 

Now  it  happened  that  poor  Biler' s  life  had  been,  since 
yesterday  morning,  rendered  weary  by  the  costume  of  the 
Charitable  Grinders.  The  youth  of  the  streets  could  not 
endure  it.  No  young  vagabond  could  be  brought  to  bear  its 
contemplation  for  a  moment,  without  throwing  himself  upon 
the  unoffending  wearer,  and  doing  him  a  mischief.  His 
social  existence  had  been  more  like  that  of  an  early  Chris- 
tian than  an  innocent  child  of  the  nineteenth  century.  He 
had  been  stoned  in  the  streets.  He  had  been  overthrown 
into  gutters  ;  bespattered  with  mud  ;  violently  flattened 
against  posts.  Entire  strangers  to  his  person  had  lifted 
his  yellow  cap  off  his  head  and  cast  it  to  the  winds.  His 
legs  had  not  only  undergone  verbal  criticism  and  revilings, 
but  had  been  handled  and  pinched.  That  very  morning,  he 
had  received  a  perfectly  unsolicited  black  eye  on  his  way  to 
the  Grinders'   establishment,  and    had  been  punished  for  it 


78  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

by  the  master  :  a  superannuated  old  Grinder  of  savage  dis- 
position, who  had  been  appointed  school-master  because  he 
didn't  know  any  thing,  and  wasn't  fit  for  any  thing,  and  for 
whose  cruel  cane  all  chubby  little  boys  had  a  perfect  fascina- 
tion. 

Thus  it  fell  out  that  Biler,  on  his  way  home,  sought  unfre- 
quented paths  ;  and  slunk  along  by  narrow  passages  and 
back  streets,  to  avoid  his  tormentors.  Being  compelled  to 
emerge  into  the  main  road,  his  ill-fortune  brought  him  at 
last  where  a  small  party  of  boys,  headed  by  a  ferocious 
young  butcher,  were  lying  in  wait  for  any  means  of  pleasur- 
able excitement  that  might  happen.  These,  finding  a  Char- 
itable Grinder  in  the  midst  of  them — unaccountably  deliv- 
ered over,  as  it  were,  into  their  hands — set  up  a  general  yell 
and  rushed  upon  him. 

But  it  so  fell  out  likewise,  that,  at  the  same  .time,  Polly, 
looking  hopelessly  along  the  road  before  her,  after  a  good 
hour's  walk,  had  said  it  was  no  use  going  any  further,  when 
suddenly  she  saw  this  sight.  She  no  sooner  saw  it  than, 
uttering  a  hasty  exclamation,  and  giving  Master  Dombey  to 
the  black-eyed,  she  started  to  the  rescue  of  her  unhappy  lit- 
tle son. 

Surprises,  like  misfortunes,  rarely  come  alone.  The 
astonished  Susan  Nipper  and  her  two  young  charges  were 
rescued  by  the  by-standers  from  under  the  very  wheels  of  a 
passing  carriage  before  they  knew  what  had  happened  ;  and 
at  that  moment  (it  was  market-day)  a  thundering  alarm  of 
"  Mad  Bull  "  was  raised. 

With  a  wild  confusion  before  her,  of  people  running  up 
and  down,  and  shouting,  and  wheels  running  over  them,  and 
boys  fighting,  and  mad  bulls  coming  up,  and  the  nurse  in 
the  midst  of  all  these  dangers  being  torn  to  pieces,  Florence 
screamed  and  ran.  She  ran  till  she  was  exhausted,  urging 
Susan  to  do  the  same  ;  and  then  stopping  and  wringing  her 
hands  as  she  remembered  they  had  left  the  other  nurse 
behind,  found,  with  a  sensation  of  terror  not  to  be  described, 
that  she  was  quite  alone. 

"  Susan  !  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence,  clapping  her  hands  in 
the  very  ecstasy  of  her  alarm.  "  Oh,  where  are  they  !  where 
are  they  !  " 

"  Where  are  they  ?  "  said  an  old  woman  coming  hobbling 
across  as  fast  as  she  could  from  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way.     "  Why  did  you  run  away  from  'em?  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  79 

"  I  was  frightened,"  answered  Florence.  "  I  didn't  know 
what  I  did.  I  thought  they  were  with  me.  Where  are 
they?" 

The  old  Avoman  took  her  by  the  wrist,  and  said,  "  I'll 
show  you." 

She  was  a  very  ugly  old  woman,  with  red  rims  round  her 
eves,  and  a  mouth  that  mumbled  and  chattered  of  itself  when 
she  was  not  speaking.  She  was  miserably  dressed,  and  car- 
ried some  skins  over  her  arm.  She  seemed  to  have  followed 
Florence  some  little  way  at  all  events,  for  she  had  lost  her 
breath  ;  and  this  made  her  uglier  still,  and  she  stood  trying 
to  regain  it  ;  working  her  shriveled  yellow  face  and  throat 
into  all  sorts  of  contortions. 

Florence  was  afraid  of  her,  and  looked,  hesitating,  up  the 
street,  of  which  she  had  almost  reached  the  bottom.  It  was 
a  solitary  place — more  a  back  road  than  a  street — and  there 
was  no  one  in  it  but  herself  and  the  old  woman. 

"  You  needn't  be  frightened  now,"  said  the  old  woman, 
still  holding  her  tight.     "  Come  along  with  me." 

"  I — I  don't  know  you.  What's  your  name  ?  "  asked 
Florence. 

"  Mrs.  Brown,"  said  the  old  woman.     "  Good  Mrs.  Brown." 
"  Are  they  near  here  ?  "  asked   Florence,   beginning  to  be 
led  away. 

"  Susan  ain't  far  off,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown  ;  ''  and  the 
others  are  close  to  her." 

"  Is  any  body  hurt  ?  "  cried  Florence. 
"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown. 
The  child  shed  tears  of  delight  on  hearing  this,  and 
accompanied  the  old  woman  willingly  ;  though  she  could 
not  help  glancing  at  her  face  as  they  went  along — particu- 
larly at  that  industrious  mouth — and  wondering  whether  Bad 
Mrs.  Brown,  if  there  were  such  a  person,  was  at  all  like  her. 
They  had  not  gone  far,  but  had  gone  by  some  very  uncom- 
fortable places,  such  as  brick-fields  and  tile-yards,  when  the 
old  woman  turned  down  a  dirty  lane,  where  the  mud  lay  in 
deep  black  ruts  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  She  stopped 
before  a  shabby  little  house,  as  closely  shut  up  as  a  house 
that  was  full  of  cracks  and  crevices  could  be.  Opening  the 
door  with  a  key  she  took  out  of  her  bonnet,  she  pushed  the 
child  before  her  into  a  back  room,  where  there  was  a  great 
heap  of  rags  of  different  colors  lying  on  the  floor  ;  a  heap 
of  bones,    and  a  heap  of  sifted  dust  or  cinders  ;  but  there 


So  DOMBEY    AND   SON, 

was  no  furniture  at  all,  and  the  walls  and  ceiling  were  quite 
black. 

The  child  became  so  terrified  that  she  was  stricken  speech- 
less, and  looked  as  though  about  to  swoon. 

"  Now  don't  be  a  young  mule,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown, 
reviving  her  with  a  shake.  "  I  am  not  agoing  to  hurt  you. 
Sit  upon  the  rags." 

Florence  obeyed  her,  holding  out  her  folded  hands,  in 
mute  supplication. 

"  I'm  not  agoing  to  keep  you,  even,  above  an  hour,"  said 
Mrs.  Brown.     "  D'ye  understand  what  I  say  ?  " 

The  child  answered  with  great  difficulty,  "  Yes." 

"  Then,"  said  Good  Mrs.  Brown,  taking  her  own  seat  on 
the  bones,  "  don't  vex  me.  If  you  don't,  I  tell  you  I  won't 
hurt  you.  But  if  you  do,  I'll  kill  you.  I  could  have  killed 
you  at  any  time — even  if  you  was  in  your  own  bed  at  home. 
Now  let's  know  who  you  are,  and  what  you  are,  and  all 
about  it." 

The  old  woman's  threats  and  promises  ;  the  dread  of  giv- 
ing her  offense  ;  and  the  habit,  unusual  to  a  child,  but 
almost  natural  to  Florence  now,  of  being  quiet,  and  repress- 
ing what  she  felt,  and  feared,  and  hoped  ;  enabled  her  to  do 
this  bidding,  and  to  tell  her  little  history,  or  what  she  knew 
of  it.     Mrs.  Brown  listened  attentively,  until  she  had  finished. 

"  So  your  name's  Dombey,  eh  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

*'I  want  that  pretty  frock,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Good 
Mrs.  Brown,  "  and  that  little  bonnet,  and  a  petticoat  or  two, 
and  any  thing  else  you   can  spare.     Come  !  Take  'em  off." 

Florence  obeyed,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  hands  would 
allow  ;  keeping,  all  the  while,  a  frightened  eye  on  Mrs. 
Brown.  When  she  had  divested  herself  of  all  the  articles 
of  apparel  mentioned  by  that  lady,  Mrs.  B.  examined  them 
at  leisure,  and  seemed  tolerably  well  satisfied  with  their  qual- 
ity and  value. 

"  Humph  !  "  she  said,  running  her  eyes  over  the  child's 
slight  figure,  "  I  don't  see  any  thing  else  except  the  shoes. 
I  must  have  the  shoes.  Miss  Dombey." 

Poor  little  Florence  took  them  off  with  equal  alacrity, 
only  too  glad  to  have  any  more  means  of  conciliation  about 
her.  The  old  woman  then  produced  some  wretched  substi- 
tutes from  the  bottom  of  the  heap  of  rags,  which  she  turned 
up  for  that  purpose  ;  together  with  a  girl's  cloak,  quite  worn 


DOxMBEY   AND   SON.  8i 

out  and  verv  old  ;  and  the  crushed  remains  of  a  bonnet  that 
had  probably  been  picked  up  from  some  ditch  or  dunghill. 
In  this  dainty  raiment,  she  instruct^^d  Florence  to  dress 
herself  ;  and  as  such  preparation  seemed  a  prelude  to  her 
release,  the  child  complied  with  increased  readiness,  if  pos- 
sible. 

In  hurriedly  putting  on  the  bonnet,  if  that  may  be  called 
1  bonnet  which  was  more  like  a  pad  to  carry  loads  on,  she 
caught  it  in  her  hair,  which  grew  luxuriantly,  and  could  not 
immediately  disentangle  it.  Good  Mrs.  Brown  whipped  out 
a  large  pair  of  scissors,  and  fell  into  an  unaccountable  state 
of  excitement. 

"  Why  couldn't  you  let  me  be,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  ''  when 
I  was  contented.     You  little  fool  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  don't  know  what  I  have  done," 
panted  Florence.     "  I  couldn't  help  it." 

"  Couldn't  help  it  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown.  "  How  do  you 
expect  I  can  help  it  ?  Why,  Lord  !  "  said  the  old  woman, 
ruffling  her  curls  with  a  furious  pleasure,  "  any  body  but  me 
would  have  had  'em  off  first  of  all." 

Florence  was  so  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  only  her  hair 
and  not  her  head  which  Mrs.  Brown  coveted,  that  she  offered 
no  resistance  or  entreaty,  and  merely  raised  her  mild  eyes 
toward  the  face  of  that  good  soul. 

"  If  I  hadn't  once  had  a  gal  of  my  own — beyond  seas  now 
— that  was  proud  of  her  hair,"  said'  Mrs.  Brown,  "I'd  have 
had  every  lock  of  it.  She's  far  away,  she's  far  away  !  Oho  ! 
Oho  !  " 

Mrs.  Brown's  was  not  a  melodious  cry,  but,  accompanied 
with  a  wild  tossing  up  of  her  lean  arms,  it  was  full  of  pas- 
sionate grief,  and  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  Florence,  whom  it 
frightened  more  than  ever.  It  had  its  part,  perhaps,  in  sav- 
ing her  curls  ;  for  Mrs.  Brown,  after  hovering  about  her 
with  the  scissors  for  some  moments,  like  a  new  kind  of  but- 
terfly, bade  her  hide  them  under  the  bonnet  and  let  no  trace 
of  them  escape  to  tempt  her.  Having  accomplished  this 
victory  over  herself,  Mrs.  Brown  resumed  her  seat  on  the 
bones,  and  smoked  a  very  short  black  pipe,  mowing  and 
mumbling  all  the  time,  as  if  she  were  eating  the  stem. 

When  the  pipe  was  smoked  out,  she  gave  the  child  a  rab- 
bit-skin to  carry,  that  she  might  appear  the  more  like  her 
ordinary  companion,  and  told  her  that  she  was  now  going  to 
lead  her  to  a  public  street  whence  she  could  inquire  her  way 


82      •  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

to  her  friends.  But  she  cautioned  her,  with  threats  of  sum- 
mary and  deadly  vengeance  in  case  of  disobedience,  not  to 
talk  to  strangers,  nor  to  repair  to  her  own  home  (which  may 
have  been  too  near  for  Mrs.  Brown's  convenience),  but  to 
her  father's  office  in  the  city  ;  also  to  wait  at  the  street 
corner  where  she  would  be  left,  until  the  clock  struck  three. 
These  directions  Mrs.  Brown  enforced  with  assurances  that 
there  would  be  potent  eyes  and  ears  in  her  employment 
cognizant  of  all  she  did  ;  and  these  directions  Florence 
promised  faithfully  and  earnestly  to  observe. 

At  length,  Mrs.  Brown,  issuing  forth,  conducted  her 
changed  and  ragged  little  friend  through  a  labyrinth  of  nar- 
row streets  and  lands  and  alleys,  which  emerged,  after  a  long 
time,  upon  a  stable-yard,  with  a  gate-way  at  the  end,  whence 
the  roar  of  a  great  thoroughfare  made  itself  audible.  Point- 
ing out  this  gate-way,  and  informing  Florence  that  when  the 
clocks  struck  three  she  was  to  go  to  the  left,  Mrs.  Brown, 
after  making  a  parting  grasp  at  her  hair  which  seemed  invol- 
untary and  quite  beyond  her  own  control,  told  her  she  knew 
what  to  do,  and  bade  her  go  and  do  it  :  remembering  that 
she  was  watched. 

With  a  lighter  heart,  but  still  sore  afraid,  Florence  felt 
herself  released,  and  tripped  off  to  the  corner.  When  she 
reached  it,  she  looked  back  and  saw  the  head  of  Good  Mrs. 
Brown  peeping  out  of  the  low  wooden  passage,  where  she 
had  issued  her  parting  injunctions  ;  likewise  the  fist  of  Good 
Mrs.  Brown  shaking  tow^ard  her.  But  though  she  often 
looked  back  afterward — every  minute,  at  least,  in  her  nerv- 
ous recollection  of  the  old  woman — she  could  not  see  her 
again. 

Florence  remained  there,  looking  at  the  bustle  in  the 
street,  and  more  and  more  bewildered  by  it  ;  and  in  the 
meanwhile  the  clocks  appeared  to  have  made  up  their  minds 
never  to  strike  three  any  more.  At  last  the  steeples  rang 
out  three  o'clock  ;  there  was  one  close  by,  so  she  couldn't 
be  mistaken  ;  and — after  often  looking  over  her  shoulder, 
and  often  going  a  little  way,  and  as  often  coming  back  again, 
lest  the  all-powerful  spies  of  Mrs.  Brown  should  take  offense 
— she  hurried  off,  as  fast  as  she  could,  in  her  slipshod  shoes, 
holding  the  rabbit-skin  tight  in  her  hand. 

All  she  knew  of  her  father's  offices  was  that  they  belonged 
to  Dombey  and  Son,  and  that  that  was  a  great  power  belong- 
ing to  the  City.     So  she  could  only  ask  the  way  to  Dombey 


DOxMBEY    AND   SON.  83 

and  Son's  in  the  City  ;  and  as  she  generally  made  inquiry 
of  children — being  afraid  to  ask  grown  people — she  got  very 
little  satisfaction  indeed.  But  by  dint  of  asking  her  way  to 
the  Citv  after  a  while,  and  dropping  the  rest  of  her  inquiry 
for  the  present,  she  really  did  advance,  by  slow  degrees, 
toward  the  heart  of  that  great  region  which  is  governed  by 
the  terrible  Lord  ]\Iayor. 

Tired  of  walking,  repulsed  and  pushed  about,  stunned  by 
the  noise  and  confusion,  anxious  for  her  brother  and  the 
nurses,  terrified  by  what  she  had  undergone,  and  the  pros- 
pect of  encountering  her  angry  father  in  such  an  altered 
state  ;  perplexed  and  frightened  alike  by  what  had  passed, 
and  what  was  passing,  and  what  was  yet  before  her  ;  Flor- 
ence went  upon  her  weary  way  with  tearful  eyes,  and  once  or 
twice  could  not  help  stopping  to  ease  her  bursting  heart  by 
crying  bitterly.  But  few  noticed  her  at  those  times,  in  the 
garb  she  wore  :  or  if  they  did,  believed  that  she  was  tutored 
to  excite  compassion,  and  passed  on.  Florence,  too,  called 
to  her  aid  all  the  firmness  and  self-reliance  of  a  character 
that  her  sad  experience  had  prematurely  formed  and  tried  ; 
and,  keeping  the  end  she  had  in  view  steadily  before  her, 
steadily  pursued  it. 

It  was  full  two  hours  later  in  the  afternoon  tiian  when  she 
had  started  on  this  strange  adventure,  when,  escaping  from 
the  clash  and  clangor  of  a  narrow  street  full  of  carts  and 
wagons,  she  peeped  into  a  kind  of  wharf  or  landing-place 
upon  the  river  side,  where  there  were  a  great  many  packages, 
casks,  and  boxes,  strewn  about  ;  a  large  pair  of  wooden  scales  ; 
and  a  little  wooden  house  on  wheels,  outside  of  which,  look- 
ing at  the  neighboring  masts  and  boats,  a  stout  man  stood 
whistling,  with  his  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  as  if  his  day's  work  was  nearly  done. 

"  Now  then  !  "  said  this  man,  happening  to  turn  round. 
"  We  haven't  got  any  thing  for  you,  little  girl.     Be  off  !  " 

"If  you  please,  is  this  the  City?"  asked  the  trembling 
daughter  of  the  Dombeys. 

"  Ah  !  It's  the  City.  You  know  that  well  enough,  I 
dare  say.     Be  off  I     We  haven't  got  any  thing  for  you." 

"  I  don't  want  any  thing,  thank  you,"  was  the  timid  answer. 
"  Except  to  know  the  way  to  Dombey  and  Son's." 

The  man  who  had  been  strolling  carelessly  toward  her, 
seemed  surprised  by  this  reply,  and  looking  attentively  in  her 
face,  rejoined  : 


84  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Why,  what  ca.n  you  want  with  Dombey  and  Son's  ?  " 

"  To  know  the  way  there,  if  you  please." 

The  man  looked  at  her  yet  more  curiously,  and  rubbed  the 
back  of  his  head  so  hard  in  his  wonderment  that  he  knocked 
his  own  hat  off. 

"  Joe  !  "  he  called  to  another  man — a  laborer — as  he 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  again. 

"  Joe  it  is  !  "  said  Joe. 

"Where's  that  young  spark  of  Dombey's  who's  been 
watching  the  shipment  of  them  goods  ?  " 

^'  Just  gone,  by  the  t'other  gate,"  said  Joe. 

"  Call  him  back  a  minute." 

Joe  ran  up  an  archway,  bawling  as  he  went,  and  very  soon 
returned  with  a  blithe-looking  boy. 

"You're  Dombey's  jockey,  ain't  you?"  said  the  first 
man. 

"  I'm  in  Dombey's  House,  Mr.  Clark,"  returned  the  boy. 

"  Look'ye  here  then,"  said  Mr.  Clark. 

Obedient  to  the  indication  of  Mr.  Clark's  hand,  the  boy 
approached  toward  Florence,  wondering,  as  well  he  might, 
what  he  had  to  do  with  her.  But  she,  who  had  heard  what 
passed,  and  who,  besides  the  relief  of  so  suddenly  consider- 
ing herself  safe  at  her  journey's  end,  felt  re-assured  beyond 
all  measure  by  his  lively  youthful  face  and  manner,  ran 
eagerly  up  to  him,  leaving  one  of  the  slip-shod  shoes  upon 
the  ground  and  caught  his  hand  in  both  of  hers. 

"  I  am  lost,  if  you  please  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Lost  !  "  cried  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  I  was  lost  this  morning,  a  long  way  from  here — and 
I  have  had  my  clothes  taken  away,  since — and  I  am  not 
dressed  in  my  own  now — and  my  name  is  Florence  Dombey, 
my  little  brother's  only  sister — and,  oh  dear,  dear,  take  care 
of  me,  if  you  please  !  "  sobbed  Florence,  giving  full  vent  to 
the  childish  feelings  she  had  so  long  suppressed,  and  burst- 
ing into  tears.  At  the  same  time  her  miserable  bonnet 
falling  off,  her  hair  came  tumbling  down  about  her  face  : 
moving  to  speechless  admiration  and  commiseration,  young 
Walter,  nephew  of  Solomon  Gills,  ships'  instrument-maker 
is  general. 

Mr.  Clark  stood  rapt  in  amazement  ;  observing  under  his 
breath,  /  never  saw  such  a  start  on  f/ii's  wharf  before.  Wal- 
ter picked  up  the  shoe,  and  put  it  on  the  little  foot  as  the 
Prince  in  the  story  might  have  fitted  Cinderella's  slipper  on. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  85 

He  hung  the  rabbit-skin  over  his  left  arm  ;  gave  the  right  to 
Florence  ;  and  felt,  not  to  say  like  Richard  Whittington — 
that  is  a  tame  comparison — but  like  Saint  George  of  England, 
with  the  dragon  lying  dead  before  him. 

"  Don't  cry,  Miss  Dombe}^"  said  Walter,  in  a  transport  of 

enthusiasm.     "  What  a  wonderful  thing  for  me  that  I  am 

'here.     You  are  as  safe  now  as  if  you  were  guarded  by  a  whole 

boat's  crew  of  picked  men  from  a  man-of-war.     Oh,    don't 

cry." 

"  I  won't  cry  any  more,"  said  Florence.  "  I  am  only  cry- 
ing for  joy." 

"  Crying  for  joy  !  "  thought  Walter,  "  and  I'm  the  cause  of 
it !  Come  along,  Miss  Dombey.  There's  the  other  shoe  off 
now  !     Take  mine.  Miss  Dombey." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Florence,  checking  him  in  the  act  of 
impetuously  pulling  off  his  own.  "  These  do  better.  These 
do  very  well." 

"Why,  to  be  sure,"  said  Walter,  glancing  at  her  foot, 
"  mine  are  a  mile  too  large.  What  am  I  thinking  about  ! 
You  never  could  walk  in  mine  !  Come  along,  Miss  Dombey. 
Let  me  see  the  villain  who  will  dare  molest  you  now." 

So  Walter,  looking  immensely  fierce,  led  off  Florence, 
looking  very  happy  ;  and  they  went  arm  in  arm  along  the 
streets,  perfectly  indifferent  to  any  astonishment  that  their 
appearance  might  or  did  excite  by  the  way. 

It  w^as  growing  dark  and  foggy,  and  beginning  to  rain  too  ; 
but  they  cared  nothing  for  this  :  being  both  w^holly  absorbed 
in  the  late  adventures  of  Florence,  which  she  related  with 
the  innocent  good  faith  and  confidence  of  her  years,  while 
Walter  listened  as  if,  far  from  the  mud  and  grease  of  Thames 
Street,  they  were  rambling  alone  among  the  broad  leaves  and 
tall  trees  of  some  desert  island  in  the  tropics — as  he  very 
likely  fancied,  for  the  time,  they  were. 

"  Have  we  far  to  go  ?  "  asked  Florence  at  last,  lifting  up 
her  eyes  to  her  companion's  face. 

"Ah!  By-the-by,"  said  Walter,  stopping,  "  let  me  see  ; 
where  are  we  ?  Oh  !  I  know.  But  the  offices  are  shut  up 
now,  Miss  Dombey.  There's  nobody  there.  Mr.  Dombey 
has  gone  hom.e  long  ago.  I  suppose  we  must  go  home  too  r 
or,  stay.  Suppose  I  take  you  to  my  uncle's,  where  I  live — 
it's  very  near  here — and  go  to  your  house  in  a  coach  to  tell 
them  you  are  safe,  and  bring  you  back  some  clothes. 
Won't  that  be  best '  '' 


S6  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  I  think  so,"  answered  Florence.  "  Don't  you  ?  What 
do  you  think  ?  " 

As  they  stood  deliberating  in  the  street,  a  man  passed 
them,  who  glanced  quickly  at  Walter  as  he  went  by,  as  if  he 
recognized  him  ;  but  seeming  to  correct  that  first  impression, 
he  passed  on  without  stopping, 

"  Why,  I  think  it's  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter.     "  Carker  in" 
our  house.     Not  Carker  our  manager,    Miss   Dombey— the 
other  Carker  ;  the  junior — Halloo  !  Mr.  Carker  !  " 

"Is  that  Walter  Gray?"  said  the  other,  stopping  and 
returning.  "  I  couldn't  believe  it,  with  such  a  strange  com- 
panion." 

As  he  stood  near  a  lamp,  listening  with  surprise  to  Walter's 
hurried  explanation,  he  presented  a  remarkable  contrast  to 
the  two  youthful  figures  arm  in  arm  before  him.  He  was  not 
old,  but  his  hair  was  white  ;  his  body  was  bent,  or  bowed  as 
if  by  the  weight  of  some  great  trouble  :  and  there  were  deep 
lines  in  his  worn  and  melancholy  face.  The  fire  of  his  eyes, 
the  expression  of  his  features,  the  very  voice  in  which  he 
spoke,  were  all  subdued  and  quenched,  as  if  the  spirit 
within  him  lay  in  ashes.  He  was  respectably,  though  very 
plainly  dressed,  in  black  ;  but  his  clothes,  molded  to  the 
general  character  of  his  figure,  seemed  to  shrink  and  abase 
themselves  upon  him,  and  to  join  in  the  sorrowful  solicitation 
which  the  whole  man  from  head  to  foot  expressed,  to  be  left 
unnoticed,  and  alone  in  his  humility. 

And  yet  his  interest  in  youth  and  hopefulness  was  not 
extinguished  with  the  other  embers  of  his  soul,  for  he 
watched  the  boy's  earnest  countenance  as  he  spoke  with 
unusual  sympathy,  though  with  an  inexplicable  show  of 
trouble  and  compassion,  which  escaped  into  his  looks,  how- 
ever hard  he  strove  to  hold  it  prisoner.  When  W^alter,  in 
conclusion,  put  to  him  the  question  he  had  put  to  Florence, 
he  still  stood  glancing  at  him  with  the  same  expression,  as  if 
he  read  some  fate  upon  his  face,  mournfully  at  variance  with 
its  present  brightness. 

"  What  do  you  advise,  Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  Walter,  smiling. 
''You  always  give  me  good  advice,  you  know,  when  you  do 
speak  to  me.     That's  not  often,  though." 

"  I  think  your  own  idea  is  the  best,"  he  answered  :  looking 
from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  back  again. 

"  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Walter,  brightening  with  a  generous 
thought,  "  come  !     Here's  a  chance  for  you.     Go  you  to  Mr. 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  87 

Dombey's,  and  be  the  messenger  of  good  news.     It  may  do 
you  some  good,  sir.     I'll  remain  at  home.     You  shall  go." 

"  I  !  "  returned  the  other. 

"  Yes.     Why  not,  ]Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  the  boy. 

He  merely  shook  him  by  the  hand  in  answer  ;  he  seemed 
in  a  manner  ashamed  and  afraid  even  to  do  that;  and  bid- 
ding him  good-night,  and  advising  him  to  make  haste, 
turned  away. 

"Come,  MissDombey,"  said  Walter,  looking  after  him  as 
they  turned  away  also,  *'  we'll  go  to  my  uncle's  as  quick  as  we 
can.  Did  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Dombey  speak  of  Mr.  Carker 
the  junior.  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  child,  mildly,  "  I  don't  often  hear  papa 
speak." 

"  Ah  !  true  !  more  shame  for  him,"  thought  Walter. 
After  a  minute's  pause,  during  which  he  had  been  looking 
down  upon  the  gentle,  patient  little  face  moving  on  at  his 
side,  he  bestirred  himself  with  his  accustomed  boyish  anima- 
tion and  restlessness  to  change  the  subject  ;  and  one  of  the 
unfortunate  shoes  coming  off  again  opportunely,  proposed  to 
carry  Florence  to  his  uncle's  in  his  arms.  Florence,  though 
very  tired,  laughingly  declined  the  proposal,  lest  he  should 
let  her  fall  ;  and  as  they  were  already  near  the  wooden  mid- 
shipman, and  as  Walter  went  on  to  cite  various  precedents, 
from  shipwrecks  and  other  moving  accidents,  where  younger 
boys  than  he  had  triumphantly  rescued  and  carried  off  older 
girls  than  Florence,  they  were  still  in  full  conversation  about 
it  when  they  arrived  at  the  instrument-maker's  door. 

"  Halloo',  Uncle  Sol  !  "  cried  Walter,  bursting  into  the 
shop,  and  speaking  incoherently  and  out  of  breath,  from  that 
time  forth,  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  "  Here's  a  wonder- 
ful adventure  !  Here's  Mr.  Dombey's  daughter  lost  in  the 
streets,  and  robbed  of  her  clothes  by  an  old  witch  of  a 
woman — found  by  me — brought  home  to  our  parlor  to  rest — 
look  here  !  " 

"  Good  Heaven  I  "  said  Uncle  Sol,  starting  back  against 
his  favorite  compass-case.     "  It  can't  be  !     Well,  I — " 

"  No,  nor  any  body  else,"  said  Walter,  anticipating  the  rest. 
"  Nobody  would,  nobody  could,  you  know.  Here  I  just 
help  me  lift  the  little  sofa  near  the  fire,  will  you.  Uncle  Sol — 
take  care  of  the  plates — cut  some  dinner  for  her,  will  you, 
uncle — throw  those  shoes  under  the  grate.  Miss  Florence — 
put  your  feet  on  the  fender  to  dry — how   damp   they   are — 


55  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

here's  an  adventure,  uncle,  eh  ? — God  bless  my  soul,  how 
hot  I  am  !  " 

Solomon  Gills  was  quite  as  hot,  by  sympathy,  and  in  exces- 
sive bewilderment.  He  patted  Florence's  head,  pressed  her 
to  eat,  pressed  her  to  drink,  rubbed  the  soles  of  her  feet  with 
his  pocket-handkerchief  heated  at  the  fire,  followed  his  loco- 
motive nephew  with  his  eyes  and  ears,  and  had  no  clear  per- 
ception of  any  thing  except  that  he  was  being  constantly 
knocked  against  and  tumbled  over  by  that  excited  young 
gentleman,  as  he  darted  about  the  room  attempting  to 
accomplish  twenty  things  at  once,  and  doing  nothing 
at  all. 

"  Here,  wait  a  minute,  uncle,"  he  continued,  catching  up  a 
candle,  ''  till  I  run  up  stairs  and  get  another  jacket  on,  and 
then  I'll  be  off.      I  say,  uncle,  isn't  this  an  adventure  ?  " 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  who,,  with  his  spectacles 
on  his  forehead  and  the  great  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  was 
incessantly  oscillating  between  Florence  on  the  sofa  and 
his  nephew  in  all  parts  of  the  parlor,  ''  it's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary— " 

*'  No,  but  do,  uncle,  please — do.  Miss  Florence — dinner, 
you  know,  uncle." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  cried  Solomon,  cutting  instantly  into  a 
leg  of  mutton,  as  if  he  were  catering  for  a  giant.  "  I'll  take 
care  of  her,  Wally  !  I  understand.  Pretty  dear  !  Fam- 
ished, of  course.  You  go  and  get  ready.  Lord  bless  me  ! 
Sir  Richard  VVhittington  thrice  Lord  Mayor  of  London." 

Walter  was  not  very  long  in  mounting  to  his  lofty  garret 
and  descending  from  it,  but  in  the  meantime  Florence,  over- 
come by  fatigue,  had  sunk  into  a  doze  before  the  fire.  The 
short  interval  of  quiet,  though  only  a  few  minutes  in  duration, 
enabled  Solomon  Gills  so  far  to  collect  his  wits  as  to  make 
some  little  arrangements  for  her  comfort,  and  to  darken  the 
room,  and  to  screen  her  from  the  blaze.  Thus,  when  the 
boy  returned,  she  was  sleeping  peacefully. 

"  That's  capital  !  "  he  whispered,  giving  Solomon  such  a 
hug  that  it  squeezed  a  new  expression  into  his  face.  "  Now 
I'm  off.  I'll  just  take  a  crust  of  bread  with  me,  for  I'm  very 
hungry — and — don't  wake  her,  Uncle  Sol." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Solomon.     ''  Pretty  child." 

"  Pretty,  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter.  '*  /  never  saw  such  a 
face,  Uncle  Sol.     Now  I'm  off." 

**  That's  right,"  said  Solomon,  greatly  relieved. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  89 

•*• 

"  I  say,  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  putting  his  face  in  at 
the  door. 

"  Here  he  is  again,"  said  Solomon. 

"  How  does  she  look  now  ?  " 

"  Quite  happy,"  said  Solomon. 

"  That's  famous  !     Now  I'm  off." 

"  I  hope  you  are,"  said  Solomon  to  himself. 

"  I  say.  Uncle  Sol,"  cried  Walter,  re-appearing  at  the  door. 

"  Here  he  is  again  !  "  said  Solomon. 

"  We  met  Mr.  Carker  the  junior  in  the  street,  queerer  than 
ever.  He  bade  me  good-by,  but  came  behind  us  here — 
there's  an  odd  thing  ! — for  when  we  reached  the  shop  door, 
I  looked  round  and  saw  him  going  quietly  away,  like  a  serv- 
ant who  had  seen  me  home,  or  a  faithful  dog.  How  does 
she  look  now,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Pretty  much  the  same  as  before,  Wally,"  replied  Uncle 
Sol. 

"  That's  right.     Now  I  am  o^  \  " 

And  this  time  he  really  was  :  and  Solomon  Gills,  with  no 
appetite  for  dinner,  sat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  fire, 
watching  Florence  in  her  slumber,  building  a  great  many 
airy  castles  of  the  most  fantastic  architecture  ;  and  looking, 
in  the  dim  shade,  and  in  the  close  vicinity  of  all  the  instru- 
ments, like  a  magician  disguised  in  a  Welsh  wig  and  a  suit 
of  coffee  color,  who  held  the  child  in  an  enchanted  sleep. 

In  the  mean  time,  Walter  proceeded  toward  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  at  a  pace  seldom  achieved  by  a  hack  horse  from  the 
stand  ;  and  yet  with  his  head  out  of  the  window  every  two  or 
three  minutes,  in  impatient  remonstrance  with  the  drivei. 
Arriving  at  his  journey's  end,  he  leaped  out,  and  breathlessly 
announcing  his  errand  to  the  servant,  followed  him  straight 
into  the  library,where  there  was  a  great  confusion  of  tongues, 
and  where  Mr.  Dombey,  his  sister,  and  Miss  Tox,  Richards, 
and  Nipper,  were  all  congregated  together. 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Walter,  rushing  up  to 
him,  "  but  I'm  happy  to  say  it's  all  right,  sir.  Miss  Dom- 
bey's found  !  " 

The  boy  with  his  open  face,  and  flowing  hair,  and  spark- 
ling eyes,  panting  with  pleasure  and  excitement,  was  wonder- 
fully opposed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  as  he  sat  confronting  him  in 
his  library  chair. 

"  I  told  you,  Louisa,  that  she  would  certainly  be  found," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  slightly  over  his   shoulder  at  that 


90  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

lady,  wno  wept  in  company  with  Miss  Tox.  "  Let  the  serv- 
ants know  that  no  further  steps  are  necessary.  This  boy 
who  brings  the  information,  is  young  Gay,  from  the  office. 
How  was  my  daughter  found,  sir  ?  I  know  how  she  was 
lost."  Here  he  looked  majestically  at  Richards.  "  But  how 
was  she  found  ?     Who  found  her  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  believe  /  found  Miss  Dombey,  sir,"  said  Walter, 
modestly  ;  ^'  at  least  I  don't  know  that  I  can  claim  the  merit 
of  having  exactly  found  her,  sir,  but  I  was  the  fortunate 
instrument  of — " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir,"  interrupted  Mr.  Dombey, 
regarding  the  boy's  evident  pride  and  pleasure  in  his  share  of 
the  transaction  with  an  instinctive  dislike,  "  by  not  having 
exactly  found  my  daughter,  and  by  being  a  fortunate 
instrument  ?     Be  plain  and  coherent,  if  you  please." 

It  was  quite  out  of  Walter's  power  to  be  coherent  ;  but  he 
rendered  himself  as  explanatory  as  he  could,  in  his  breath- 
less state,  and  stated  why  he  had  come  alone. 

"  You  hear  this,  girl .?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly  to  the 
black-eyed.  "  Take  what  is  necessary,  and  return  immedi- 
ately with  this  young  man  to  fetch  Miss  Florence  home. 
Gay,  you  will  be  rewarded  to-morrow." 

''  Oh  !  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Walter.  "  You  are  very  kind. 
I'm  sure  I  was  not  thinking   of  any  reward,  sir." 

"  You  are  a  boy,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  suddenly  and  almost 
fiercely  ;  "  and  what  you  think  of,  or  affect  to  think  of,  is  of 
little  consequence.  You  have  done  well,  sir.  Don't  undo 
it.     Louisa,  please  to  give  the  lad  some  wine." 

Mr.  Dombey's  glance  followed  W^alter  Gay  with  sharp 
disfavor,  as  he  left  the  room  under  the  pilotage  of  Mrs. 
Chick  ;  and  it  may  be  that  his  mind's  'eye  followed  him  with 
no  greater  relish,  as  he  rode  back  to  his  uncle's  with  Miss 
Susan  Nipper.  ^ 

There  they  found  that  Florence,  much  refreshed  by  sleep, 
had  dined,  and  greatly  improved  the  acquaintance  of  Solo- 
mon Gills,  with  whom  she  was  on  terms  of  perfect  confidence 
and  ease.  The  black-eyed  (who  had  cried  so  much  that  she 
might  now  be  called  the  red-eyed,  and  who  was  very  silent 
and  depressed)  caught  her  in  her  arms  without  a  word  of 
contradiction  or  reproach,  and  made  a  very  hysterical  meet- 
ing of  it.  Then  converting  the  parlor  for  the  nonce  into  a 
private  tiring-room,  she  dressed  hex,  with  great  care,  in 
proper  clothes  ;  and  presently  led  her  forth,  as  like  a  Dom- 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  91 

bey  as  her  natural  disqualifications  admitted   of  her  being 
made. 

"  Good-night !  "  said  Florence,  running  up  to  Solomon. 
"  You  have  been  very  good  to  me." 

Old  Sol  was  quite  delighted,  and  kissed  her  like  her  grand- 
father. 

"Good-night,  Walter  !  Good-by  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Good-by  !  "  said  Walter,  giving  both  his  hands. 

"  ril  never  forget  you,"  pursued  Florence.  "No  !  indeed 
I  never  will.     Good-by,  Walter  !  " 

In  the  innocence  of  her  grateful  heart,  the  child  lifted  up 
her  face  to  his.  Walter,  bending  down  his  own,  raised  it 
again,  all  red  and  burning  ;  and  looked  at  Uncle  Sol,  quite 
sheepishly. 

"  Where's  Walter  ?  "  "  Good-night,  Walter  !  "  "  Good-by, 
Walter!"  "  Shake  hands  once  more,  Walter!"  This  was 
still  Florence's  cry,  after  she  was  shut  up  with  her  little 
maid,  in  the  coach.  And  when  the  coach  at  length  moved 
off,  Walter  on  the  door-step  gayly  returned  the  waving  of  her 
handkerchief,  while  the  wooden  midshipman  behind  him 
seemed,  like  himself,  intent  upon  that  coach  alone,  excluding 
all  the  other  passing  coaches  from  his  observation. 

In  good  time  Mr.  Dombey's  mansion  was  gained  again, 
and  again  there  was  a  noise  of  tongues  in  the  library.  Again, 
too,  the  coach  was  ordered  to  wait — "  for  Mrs.  Richards," 
one  of  Susan's  fellow-servants  ominously  whispered,  as  she 
passed  with  Florence. 

The  entrance  of  the  lost  child  made  a  slight  sensation,  but 
not  much.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  never  found  her,  kissed 
her  once  upon  the  forehead,  and  cautioned  her  not  to  run 
away  again,  or  wander  anywhere  with  treacherous  attendants. 
Mrs.  Chick  stopped  in  her  lamentations  on  the  corruption  of 
human  nature,  even  when  beckoned  to  the  paths  of  virtue  by 
a  Charitable  Grinder  ;  and  received  her  with  a  welcome 
something  short  of  the  reception  due  to  none  but  perfect 
Dombeys.  Miss  Tox  regulated  her  feelings  by  the  models 
before  her.  Richards,  the  culprit  Richards,  alone  poured  out 
her  heart  in  broken  words  of  welcome,  and  bowed  herself  over 
the  little  wandering  head  as  if  she  really  loved  it. 

"Ah,  Richards  !"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 'with  a  sigh.  "It 
would  have  been  much  more  satisfactory  to  those  who  wish 
to  think  well  of  their  fellow-creatures,  and  much  more  becom- 
ing in  you,  if  you  had   shown   some  proper  feeling,  in  time, 


92  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

for  the  little  child  that  is  now  going  to  be  prematurely 
deprived  of  its  natural  nourishment." 

"  Cut  off,"  said  Miss  Tox,  in  a  plaintive  whisper,  "from 
one  common  fountain  !  " 

"  If  it  was  my  ungrateful  case,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  solemnly, 
"  and  I  had  your  reflections,.  Richards,  I  should  feel  as  if  the 
Charitable  Grinders'  dress  would  blight  my  child,  and  the 
education  choke  him." 

For  the  matter  of  that — but  Mrs.  Chick  didn't  know  it — 
he  had  been  pretty  well  blighted  by  the  dress  already  ;  and 
as  to  the  education,  even  its  retributive  effect  might  be  pro- 
duced in  time,  for  it  was  a  storm  of  sobs  and  blows. 

"  Louisa  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  It  is  not  necessary  to 
prolong  these  observations.  The  woman  is  discharged  and 
paid.  You  leave  this  house,  Richards,  for  taking  my  son — 
my  son,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  emphatically  repeating  these  two 
words,  "  into  haunts  and  into  society  which  are  not  to  be 
thought  of  without  a  shudder.  As  to  the  accident  which 
befell  Miss  Florence  this  morning,  I  regard  that  as,  in  one 
great  sense,  a  happy  and  fortunate  circumstance  ;  inasmuch 
as,  but  for  that  occurrence,  I  never  could  have  known — and 
from  your  own  lips  too — of  what  you  had  been  guilty.  I 
think,  Louisa,  the  other  nurse,  the  young  person,"  here  Miss 
Nipper  sobbed  aloud,  "  being  so  much  younger,  and  neces- 
sarily influenced  by  Paul's  nurse,  may  remain.  Have  the 
goodness  to  direct  that  this  woman's  coach  is  paid  to — "  Mr. 
Dombey  stopped  and  winced — "  to  Staggs's  Gardens." 

Polly  moved  toward  the  door,  with  Florence  holding  to 
her  dress,  and  crying  to  her  in  the  most  pathetic  manner  not 
to  go  away.  It  was  a  dagger  in  the  haughty  father's  heart, 
an  arrow  in  his  brain,  to  see  how  the  flesh  and  blood  he 
could  not  disown  clung  to  this  obscure  stranger,  and  he  sit- 
ting by.  Not  that  he  cared  to  whom  his  daughter  turned,  or 
from  whom  turned  away.  The  swift  sharp  agony  struck 
through  him,  as  he  thought  of  what  his  son  might  do. 

His  son  cried  lustily  that  night,  at  all  events.  Sooth  to 
say,  poor  Paul  had  better  reason  for  his  tears  than  sons  of 
that  age  often  have,  for  he  had  lost  his  second  mother — his 
first,  so  far  as  he  knew — by  a  stroke  as  sudden  as  that  natural 
affliction  which  had  darkened  the  beginning  of  his  life.  At 
the  same  blow,  his  sister  too,  who  cried  herself  to  sleep  so 
mournfully,  had  lost  as  good  and  true  a  friend.  But  that  is 
quite  beside  the  question.     Let  us  waste  no  words  about  it 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  93 

CHAPTER    VII. 

A    bird's-eye    glimpse    of    TOX's   dwelling-place  ;     ALSO    OF 
THE    state    OF    MISS     TOX's    AFFECTIONS. 

Miss  Tox  inhabited  a  dark  little  house  that  had  been 
squeezed,  at  some  remote  period  of  English  history,  into  a 
fashionable  neighborhood  at  the  west  end  of  the  town,  where 
it  stood  in  the  shade  like  a  poor  relation  of  the  great  street 
round  the  corner,  coldly  looked  down  upon  by  mighty  man- 
sions. It  was  not  exactly  in  a  court,  and  it  was  not  exactly  in  a 
yard  ;  but  it  was  in  the  dullest  of  No-Thoroughfares,  ren- 
dered anxious  and  haggard  by  distant  double  knocks.  The 
name  of  this  retirement,  where  grass  grew  between  the 
chinks  in  the  stone  pavement,  was  Princess's  Place  ;  and  in 
Princess's  Place  was  Princess's  Chapel,  with  a  tinkling  bell, 
where  sometimes  as  many  as  five-and-twenty  people  attended 
service  on  a  Sunday.  The  Princess's  Arms  was  also  there, 
and  much  resorted  to  by  splendid  footmen.  A  sedan-chair 
v,-as  kept  inside  the  railing  before  the  Princess's  Arms,  but 
it  had  never  come  out  within  the  memory  of  man  ;  and  on 
fine  mornings,  the  top  of  every  rail  (there  were  eight-and 
forty,  as  Miss  Tox  had  often  counted)  was  decorated  with  a 
pewter-pot. 

There  was  another  private  house  beside  Miss  Tox's  in 
Princess's  Place  :  not  to  mention  an  immense  pair  of  gates, 
with  an  immense  pair  of  lion-headed  knockers  on  them, 
which  were  never  opened  by  any  chance,  and  v%-ere  supposed 
to  constitute  a  disused  entrance  to  somebody's  stables. 
Indeed,  there  was  a  smack  of  stabling  in  the  air  of  Princess's 
Place  ;  and  Miss  Tox's  bedroom  (which  was  at  the  back) 
commanded  a  vista  of  Mews,  where  hostlers,  at  whatever 
sort  of  work  engaged,  were  continually  accompanying  them- 
selves with  effervescent  noises  ;  and  where  the  most  domes- 
tic and  confidential  garments  of  coachmen  and  their  wives 
and  families,  usually  hung,  like  Macbeth' s  banners,  on  the 
outward  walls. 

At  this  other  private  house  in  Princess's  Place,  tenanted 
by  a  retired  butler  who  had  married  a  housekeeper,  apart- 
rnents  were  let  furnished,  to  a  single  gentleman  :  to  wit,  a 
wooden-featured,  blue- faced  major,  with  his  eyes  startmg 
out  of  his  head,  in  whom  Miss  Tox  recognized,  as  she  her- 


94  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

self  expressed  it,  "something  so  truly  military;'*  and 
between  whom  and  herself,  an  occasional  interchange  of 
newspapers  and  pamphlets,  and  such  platonic  dalliance, 
was  effected  through  the  medium  of  a  dark  servant  of  the 
major's,  who  Miss  Tox  was  quite  content  to  classify  as  a 
"  native,"  without  connecting  him  with  any  geographical 
idea  whatever. 

Perhaps  there  never  was  a  smaller  entry  and  staircase 
than  the  entry  and  staircase  of  Miss  Tox's  house.  Perhaps, 
taken  altogether,  from  top  to  bottom,  it  was  the  most  incon- 
venient little  house  in  England,  and  the  crookedest  ;  but 
then,  Miss  Tox  said,  what  a  situation  !  There  was  very  little 
daylight  to  be  got  there  in  the  winter  :  no  sun  at  the  best  of 
times  :  air  was  out  of  the  question,  and  traffic  was  walled 
out.  Still  Miss  Tox  said,  think  of  the  situation  !  So  said 
the  blue-faced  major,  whose  eyes  were  starting  out  of  his 
head  :  who  gloried  in  Princess's  Place  :  and  who  delighted 
to  turn  the  conversation  at  his  club,  whenever  he  could,  to 
something  connected  with  some  of  the  great  people  in  the 
great  street  round  the  corner,  that  he  might  have  the  satis- 
faction of  saying  they  were  his  neighbors. 

The  dingy  tenement  inhabited  by  Miss  Tox  was  her  own  ; 
having  been  devised  and  bequeathed  to  her  by  the  deceased 
owner  of  the  fishy  eye  in  the  locket,  of  whom  a  miniature 
portrait,  with  a  powdered  head  and  a  pig-tail,  balanced  the 
kettle-holder  on  opposite  sides  of  the  parlor  fire-place. 
The  greater  part  of  the  furniture  was  of  the  powdered-head 
and  pig-tail  period  ;  comprising  a  plate-warmer,  always  lan- 
guishing and  sprawling  its  four  attenuated  bowlegs  in  some- 
body's way  ;  and  an  obsolete  harpsichord,  illuminated  round 
the  maker's  name  with  a  painted  garland  of  sweet  peas. 

Although  Major  Bagstock  had  arrived  at  what  is  called  in 
polite  literature,  the  grand  meridian  of  life,  and  was  proceed- 
ing on  his  journey  down-hill  with  hardly  any  throat,  and  a 
very  rigid  pair  of  jaw-bones,  and  long-flapped  elephantine 
ears,  and  his  eyes  and  complexion  in  the  state  of  artificial 
excitement  already  mentioned,  he  was  mightily  proud  of 
awakening  an  interest  in  Miss  Tox,  and  tickled  his  vanity 
with  the  fiction  that  she  was  a  splendid  woman,  who  had  her 
eye  on  him.  This  he  had  several  times  hinted  at  the  club  : 
in  connection  with  little  jocularities,  of  which  old  Joe  Bag- 
stock,  old  Joey  Bagstock,  old  J.  Bagstock,  old  Josh  Bagstock, 
or  so  forth,  was  the  perpetual  theme  :  it  being,  as  it  were,  the 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  95 

major's  stronghold  and  donjon-keep  of  light  humor  to  be  on 
the  most  familiar  terms  with  his  own  name. 

"  Joey  B.,  sir,"  the  major  would  say,  with  a  flourish  of  his 
walking-stick,  "  is  worth  a  dozen  of  you.  If  you  had  a 
few  more  of  the  Bagstock  breed  among  you,  sir,  vou'd  be 
none  the  worse  for  it.  Old  Joe,  sir,  needn't  look  far  for  a 
wife,  even  now,  if  he  was  on  the  look-out  ;  but  he's  hard- 
hearted, sir,  is  Joe — he's  tough,  sir,  tough,  and  dev-ilish 
sly  I  "  After  such  a  declaration  wheezing  sounds  would  be 
heard  ;  and  the  major's  blue  would  deepen  into  purple,  while 
his  eyes  strained  and  started  convulsively. 

Notwithstanding  his  very  liberal  laudation  of  himself,  how- 
ever, the  major  was  selfish.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
there  ever  was  a  more  entirely  selfish  person  at  heart  ;.  or  at 
stomach  is  perhaps  a  better  expression,  seeing  that  he  was 
more  decidedly  endowed  with  that  latter  organ  than  with 
the  former.  He  had  no  idea  of  being  overlooked  or  slighted 
by  any  body  ;  least  of  all,  had  he  the  remotest  comprehen- 
sion of  being  overlooked  and  slighted  by  Miss  Tox. 

And  yet.  Miss  Tox,  as  it  appeared,  forgot  him — graduallv 
forgot  him.  She  began  to  forget  him  soon  after  her  discov- 
ery of  the  Toodle  family.  She  continued  to  forget  him  up 
to  the  time  of  the  christening.  She  went  on  forgetting  him 
with  compound  interest  after  that.  Something  or  somebody 
had  superseded  him  as  a  source  of  interest. 

"  Good-morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  meeting  Miss 
Tox  in  Princess's  Place,  some  weeks  after  the  changes 
chronicled  in  the  last    chapter. 

"Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Miss  Tox,  very  coldly. 

*'  Joe  Bagstock,  ma'am,"  observed  the  major,  with  his 
usual  gallantry,  "  has  not  had  the  happiness  of  bowing  to 
you  at  your  window,  for  a  considerable  period.  Joe  has 
been  hardly  used,  ma'am.  His  sun  has  been  behind  a 
cloud." 

Miss  Tox  inclined  her  head  ;  but  very  coldlv  indeed. 

"  Joe's  luminary  has  been  out  of  town,  ma'am,  perhaps," 
inquired  the  major. 

"I?  out  of  town?  oh  no,  I  have  not  been  out  of  town," 
said  ]Miss  Tox.  "  I  have  been  much  engaged  lately.  My 
time  is  nearly  all  devoted  to  some  very  intimate  friends.  I 
am  afraid  I  have  none  to  spare,  even  now.  Good-morning, 
sir  !  " 

As  Miss  Tox,  with  her  most  fascinating  step  and  carriage, 


96  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

disappeared  from, Princess's  Place,  the  major  stood  looking 
after  her  with  a  bluer  face  than  ever  :  muttering  and  growl- 
ing some  not  at  all  complimentary  remarks. 

"Why,  damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his  lobster 
eyes  round  and  round  Princess's  Place,  and  apostrophizing 
its  fragrant  air,  "  six  months  ago,  the  woman  loved  the 
ground  Josh  Bagstock  walked  on.  What's  the  meaning  of 
it?" 

The  major  decided,  after  some  consideration,  that  it 
meant  man-traps  ;  that  it  meant  plotting  and  snaring  ;  that 
Miss  Tox  was  digging  pitfalls.  "  But  you  won't  catch  Joe, 
ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  He's  tough,  ma'am,  tough,  is  J.  B, 
Tough,  and  dev-ilish  sly !  "  over  which  reflection  he  chuckled 
for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  still,  when  that  day  and  many  other  days  were  gone 
and  past,  it  seemed  that  Miss  Tox  took  no  heed  whatever  of 
the  major,  and  thought  nothing  more  at  all  about  him.  She 
had  been  wont,  once  upon  a  time,  to  look  out  at  one  of  her 
little  dark  windows  by  accident,  and  blushingly  return  the 
major's  greeting  ;  but  now,  she  never  gave  the  major  a  chance, 
and  cared  nothing  at  all  whether  he  looked  over  the  way  or  not. 
Other  changes  had  come  to  pass  too.  The  major,  standing 
in  the  shade  of  his  own  apartment,  could  make  out  that  an 
air  of  greater  smartness  had  recently  come  over  Miss  Tox's 
house  ;  that  a  new  cage  with  gilded  wires  had  been  provided 
for  the  ancient  little  canary-bird  ;  that  divers  ornaments, 
cut  out  of  colored  card-boards  and  paper,  seemed  to  deco- 
rate the  chimney-piece  and  tables  ;  that  a  plant  or  two  had 
suddenly  sprung  up  in  the  windows  ;  that  Miss  Tox  occa- 
sionally practiced  on  the  harpsichord,whose  garland  of  sweet 
peas  was  always  displayed  ostentatiously,  crowned  with  the 
Copenhagen  and  Bird  waltzes  in  a  music-book  of  Miss  Tox's 
own  copying. 

Over  and  above  all  this,  Miss  Tox  had  long  been  dressed 
with  uncommon  care  and  elegance  in  slight  mourning.  But 
this  helped  the  major  out  of  his  difficulty  ;  and  he  deter- 
mined within  himself  that  she  had  come  into  a  small  legacy, 
and  grown  proud. 

It  was  on  the  very  next  day  after  he  had  eased  his  mind 
by  arriving  at  this  decision,  that  the  major,  sitting  at  his 
breakfast,  saw  an  apparition  so  tremendous  and  wonderful  in 
Miss  Tox's  little  drawing  room,  that  he  remained  for  some 
time   rooted  to  his  chair  ;  then,  rushing  into  the  next  room. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  97 

returned  with  a  double-barreled  opera-glass,  through  which 
he  surveyed  it  intently  for  some  minutes. 

"  It's  a  baby,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shutting  up  the  glass 
again,  "  for  fifty  thousand  pounds  !  " 

The  major  couldn't  forget  it.  He  could  do  nothing  but 
whistle,  and  stare  to  that  extent,  that  his  eyes,  compared 
with  what  they  now  became,  had  been  in  former  times  quite 
cavernous  and  sunken.  Day  after  day,  two,  three,  four 
times  a  week,  this  baby  re-appeared.  The  major  continued 
to  stare  and  whistle.  To  all  other  intents  and  purposes  he 
was  alone  in  Princess's  Place.  Miss  Tox  had  ceased  to 
mind  what  he  did.  He  might  have  been  black  as  well  as 
blue,  and  it  would  have  been  of  no  consequence  to  her. 

The  perseverance  with  which  she  walked  out  of  Princess's 
Place  to  fetch  this  baby  and  its  nurse,  and  walked  back  with 
them,  and  walked  home  with  them  again,  and  continually 
mounted  guard  over  them  ;  and  the  perseverance  with  which 
she  nursed  it  herself,  and  fed  it,  and  played  with  it,  and 
froze  its  young  blood  with  airs  upon  the  harpsichord  ;  was 
extraordinary.  At  about  this  same  period  too,  she  was 
seized  with  a  passion  for  looking  at  a  certain  bracelet  ;  also 
with  a  passion  for  looking  at  the  moon,  of  which  she  would 
take  long  observations  from  her  chamber  window.  But 
whatever  she  looked  at  ;  sun,  moon,  stars,  or  bracelets  ;  she 
looked  no  more  at  the  major.  And  the  major  whistled,  and 
stared,  and  wondered,  and  dodged  about  his  room,  and 
could  make  nothing  of  it. 

"  You'll  quite  win  my  brother  Paul's  heart,  and  that's  the 
truth,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  one  day. 

Miss  Tox  turned  pale. 

"  He  grows  more  like  Paul  every  day,"  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Miss  Tox  returned  no  other  reply  than  by  taking  the  little 
Paul  in  her  arms,  and  making  his  cockade  perfectly  flat  and 
limp  with  her  caresses. 

"  His  mother,  my  dear,"said  Miss  Tox,  "whose  acquaint- 
ance I  was  to  have  made  through  you,  does  he  at  all  resemble 
her?" 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  Louisa. 

"  She  was — she  was  pretty,  I  believe  ? "  faltered  Miss 
Tox. 

"Why,  poor  dear  Fanny  v/as  interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  some  judicial  consideration.  "Certainly  interesting. 
She  had  not  that  air  of  commanding  superiority  ?vhich  one 


9$  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

would  somehow  expect,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  find 
in  my  brother's  wife  ;  nor  had  she  that  strength  and  vigor  of 
mind  which  such  a  man  requires." 

Miss  Tox  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

■  "  But  she  was  pleasing,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  :  "  extremely  so. 
And  she  meant  ! — oh,  dear,  how  well  poor  Fanny  meant !  " 

"You  angel!"  cried  Miss  Tox  to  little  Paul.  "You 
picture  of  your  own  papa  !  " 

If  the  major  could  have  known  how  many  hopes  and 
ventures,  what  a  multitude  of  plans  and  speculations,  rested 
on  that  baby  head  ;  and  could  have  seen  them  hovering  in 
all  their  heterogeneous  confusion  and  disorder,  round  the 
puckered  cap  of  the  unconscious  little  Paul ;  he  might  have 
stared  indeed.  Then  would  he  have  recognized,  among  the 
crowd,  some  few  ambitious  motes  and  beams  belonging  to 
Miss  Tox  ;  then  would  he,  perhaps,  have  understood  the 
nature  of  that  lady's  faltering  investment  in  the  Dombey  firm. 

If  the  child  himself  could  have  awakened  in  the  night, 
and  seen,  gathered  about  his  cradle-curtains,  faint  reflections 
of  the  dreams  that  other  people  had  of  him,  they  might  have 
scared  him,  with  good  reason.  But  he  slumbered  on,  alike 
unconscious  of  the  kind  intentions  of  Miss  Tox,  the  wonder 
of  the  major,  the  early  sorrows  of  his  sister,  and  the  stern 
visions  of  his  father  ;  and  innocent  that  any  spot  of  earth 
contained  a  Dombey  or  a  Son. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Paul's  further  progress,  growth,  and  character. 

Beneath  the  watching  and  attentive  eyes  of  Time — so  far 
another  major — Paul's  slumbers  gradually  changed.  More 
and  more  light  broke  in  upon  them  ;  distincter  and  dis- 
tincter  dreams  disturbed  them  ;  an  accumulating  crowd  of 
objects  and  impressions  swarmed  about  his  rest  ;  and  so  he 
passed  from  babyhood  to  childhood,  and  became  a  talking, 
walking,  wondering  Dombey. 

On  the  downfall  and  banishment  of  Richards,  the  nur- 
sery may  be  said  to  have  been  put  into  commission  :  as  a 
Public  Department  is  sometimes,  when  no  individual  Atlas 
can  be  found  to  support  it.  The  commissioners  were,  of 
course,  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  :  who  devoted  themselves 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  99 

to  their  duties  with  such  astonishing  ardor  that  Major  Bag- 
stock  had  every  day  some  new  reminder  of  his  being  for- 
saken, while  Mr.  Chick,  bereft  of  domestic  supervision,  cast 
himself  upon  the  gay  world,  dined  at  clubs  and  coffee-houses, 
smelled  of  smoke  on  three  distinct  occasions,  went  to  the 
play  by  himself,  and  in  short,  loosened  (as  Mrs.  Chick 
once  told  him)  every  social  bond,  and  moral  obligation. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  early  promise,  all  this  vigilance  and 
care  could  not  make  little  Paul  a  thriving  boy.  Naturally 
delicate,  perhaps,  he  pined  and  wasted  after  the  dismissal 
of  his  nurse,  and,  for  a  long  time,  seemed  but  to  wait  his 
opportunity  of  gliding  through  their  hands,  and  seeking  his 
lost  mother.  This  dangerous  ground  in  his  steeple-chase 
toward  manhood  passed,  he  still  found  it  very  rough  riding, 
and  was  grievously  beset  by  all  the  obstacles  in  his  course. 
Every  tooth  was  a  break-neck  fence,  and  every  pimple  in  the 
measles  a  stone  wall  to  him.  He  was  down  in  every  fit  of 
the  whooping-cough,  and  rolled  upon  and  crushed  by  a 
whole  field  of  small  diseases,  that  came  trooping  on  each 
other's  heels  to  prevent  his  getting  up  again.  Some  bird  of 
prey  got  into  his  throat  instead  of  the  thrush  ;  and  the  very 
chickens  turning  ferocious — if  they  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
that  infant  malady  to  which  they  lend  their  name — worried 
him  like  tiger-cats. 

The  chill  of  Paul's  christening  had  struck  home,  perhaps 
to  some  sensitive  part  of  his  nature,  which  could  not  recover 
itself  in  the  cold  shade  of  his  father  ;  but  he  was  an  unfor- 
tunate child  from  that  day.  Mrs.  Wickam  often  said  she 
never  see  a  dear  so  put  upon. 

Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  waiter's  wife — which  would  seem 
equivalent  to  being  any  other  man's  widow — whose  applica- 
tion for  an  engagement  in  Mr.  Dombey's  service  had  been 
favorably  considered,  on  account  of  the  apparent  impossi- 
bility of  her  having  any  followers,  or  any  one  to  follow  ;  and 
who,  from  within  a  day  or  two  of  Paul's  sharp  weaning,  had 
been  engaged  as  his  nurse.  Mrs.  Wickam  was  a  meek 
woman,  of  a  fair  complexion,  with  her  eye-brows  always 
elevated,  and  her  head  always  drooping  ;  who  was  always 
ready  to  pity  herself,  or  to  be  pitied,  or  to  pity  any  body  else  ; 
and  who  had  a  surprising  natural  gift  of  viewing  all  subjects 
in  an  utterly  forlorn  and  pitiable  light,  and  bringing  dread- 
ful precedents  to  bear  upon  them,  and  deriving  the  greatest 
consolation  from  the  exercise  of  that  talent. 


100  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  observe,  that  no  touch  of  this 
quality  ever  reached  the  magnificent  knowledge  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.  It  would  have  been  remarkable,  indeed,  if  any  had  ; 
when  no  one  in  the  house — not  even  Mrs.  Chick  or  Miss 
Tox — dared  ever  whisper  to  him  that  there  had,  on  any  one 
occasion,  been  the  least  reason  for  uneasiness  in  reference  to 
little  Paul.  He  had  settled,  within  himself,  that  the  child 
must  necessarily  pass  through  a  certain  routine  of  minor 
maladies,  and  that  the  sooner  he  did  so  the  better.  If  he 
could  have  bought  him  off,  or  provided  a  substitute,  as  in 
the  case  of  an  unlucky  drawing  for  the  militia,  he  would 
have  been  glad  to  do  so  on  liberal  terms.  But  as  this  was 
not  feasible,  he  merely  wondered,  in  his  haughty  manner, 
now  and  then,  what  Nature  meant  by  it  ;  and  comforted 
himself  with  the  reflection  that  there  was  another  mile-stone 
passed  upon  the  road,  and  that  the  great  end  of  the  journey 
lay  so  much  the  nearer.  For  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his 
mind,  now  and  constantly  intensifying,  and  increasing  in  it 
as  Paul  grew  older,  was  impatience.  Impatience  for  the 
time  to  come,  when  his  visions  of  their  united  consequence 
and  grandeur  would  be  triumphantly  realized. 

Some  philosophers  tell  us  that  selfishness  is  at  the  root  of 
our  best  loves  and  affections.  Mr.  Dombey's  young  child 
was,  from  the  beginning,  so  distinctly  important  to  him  as  a 
part  of  his  own  greatness,  or  (which  is  the  same  thing)  of 
the  greatness  of  Dombey  and  Son,  that  there  is  no  doubt 
his  parental  affection  might  have  been  easily  traced,  like 
many  a  goodly  superstructure  of  fair  fame,  to  a  very  low 
foundation.  But  he  loved  his  son  with  all  the  love  he  had. 
If  there  were  a  warm  place  in  his  frosty  heart,  his  son  occu- 
pied it ;  if  its  very  hard  surface  could  receive  the  impres- 
sion of  any  image,  the  image  of  that  son  was  there  ;  though 
not  so  much  as  an  infant,  or  as  a  boy,  but  as  a  grown  man 
— the  "  Son  "  of  the  firm.  Therefore  he  was  impatient  to 
advance  into  the  future,  and  to  hurry  over  the  intervening 
passages  of  his  history.  Therefore  he  had  little  or  no  anxiety 
about  them,  in  spite  of  his  love  ;  feeling  as  if  the  boy  had  a 
charmed  life,  and  must  become  the  man  with  whom  he  held 
such  constant  communication  in  his  thoughts,  and  for  whom 
he  planned  and  projected,  as  for  an  existing  reality,  every  day. 

Thus  Paul  grew  to  be  nearly  five  years  old.  He  was  a 
pretty  little  fellow  ;  though  there  was  something  wan  and 
wistful  in  his  small  face,  that   gave  occasion  to  many  signifi- 


DOMBEY    AND   SON  loi 

cant  shakes  of  Mrs.  Wickam's  head,'  and  many  Idng-drawn 
inspirations  of   Mrs.  Wickam's   breath.     His   temper  gave 
abundant  promise  of  being    imperious  in  after  life  ;  and  he 
had  as  hopeful  an  apprehension  of  his  own  importance,  and 
the  rightful  subservience  of  all  other  things  and  persons  to 
it,    as   heart   could    desire.     He  was   childish  and   sportive 
enough  at  times,  and  not  of  a  sullen  disposition  ;  but  he  had 
a  strange,  old-fashioned,  thoughtful  way,   at  other  times,  of 
sitting  brooding  in  his  miniature  arm-chair,  when  he  looked 
(and  talked)  like  one   of  those    terrible  little  beings  in  the 
fairy  tales,  who,  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hundred  years 
of  age,   fantastically  represent   the  children  for  whom_  they 
have  been   substituted.     He   would  frequently  be   stricken 
with  this   precocious  mood  up  stairs  in    the   nursery  ;  and 
would  .sometimes  lapse  into  it  suddenly,  exclaiming  that  he 
was    tired  :  even  while  playing  with  Florence,    or   driving 
Miss  Tox  in  single  harness.     But  at  no  time  did  he  fall  into 
it    so   surely  as  when,   his  little  chair  being    carried   down 
into  his  father's  room,  he  sat  there  with  him  after  dinner,  by 
the  fire.     They  were  the  strangest   pair  at  such  a  time  that 
ever  fire-light  shone  upon.     Mr.  Dombey  so  erect  and  solemn, 
gazing  at  the  blaze  ;  his  little  image,   with  an  old,  old,  face, 
peering   into   the  red  perspective  with  the   fixed    and  rapt 
attention  of  a  sage.     Mr.   Dombey  entertaining  complicated 
worldly   schemes    and    plans  ;  the  little   image  entertaining 
Heaven  knows  what  wild  fancies,  half-formed  thoughts,  and 
wandering  speculations.     Mr.  Dombey  stiff  with  starch  and 
arrogance  ;  the  little  im.age  by   inheritance,  and   in  uncon- 
scious imitation.     The  two   so  very  much   alike,  and  yet  so 
monstrously   contrasted. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  when  they  had  both  been  per- 
fectly quiet  for  a  long  time,  and  Mr.  Dom.bey  only  knew 
that  the  child  was  awake  by  occasionally  glancing  at  his  eye, 
where  the  bright  fire  was  sparkling  like  a  jewel,  little  Paul 
broke  silence  thus  : 

"  Papa  !  what's  money  ?  " 

The  abrupt  question  had  such  immediate  reference  to 
the  subject  of  Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts,  that  Mr.  Dombey 
was  quite  disconcerted. 

"  What  is  money,  Paul  ?  "  he  answered.     "  ]\Ioney  ?  " 
"  Yes,"  said  the  child,   laying  his  hands  upon  the  elbows 
of  his  little  chair,   and  turning  the  old  face  up  toward  Mr 
Dombey's  ;  "  what  is  money  ? " 


I02  DOMREY   AND   SON. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a-  difficulty.  He  would  have  liked  to 
give  him  some  explanation  involving  the  terms  circulating- 
medium,  currency,  depreciation  of  currency,  paper,  bullion, 
rates  of  exchange,'  value  of  precious  metals  in  the  market, 
and  so  forth  ;  but  looking  down  at  the  little  chair,  and  see- 
ing what  a  long  way  down  it  was,  he  answered  :  "  Gold, 
and  silver,  and  copper.  Guineas,  shillings,  half -pence.  You 
know  what  they  are  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  what  they  are,"  said  Paul.  "  I  don't 
mean  that,  papa.     I  mean  what's  money  after  all." 

Heaven  and  Earth,  how  old  his  face  was  as  he  turned  it 
up  again  toward  his  father's  ! 

''  What  is  money  after  all  I  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  backing 
his  chair  a  little,  that  he  might  the  better  gaze  in  sheer 
amazement  at  the  presumptuous  atom  that  propounded  such 
an  inquiry. 

''  I  mean,  papa,  what  can  it  do  ?  "  returned  Paul,  folding 
his  arms  (they  were  hardly  long  enough  to  fold),  and  looking 
at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him,  and  at  the  fire,  and  up  at  him  again. 

Mr.  Dombey  drew  his  chair  back  to  its  former  place  and 
patted  him  on  the  head.  "  You'll  know  better  by-and-by, 
my  man,"  he  said.  "  Money,  Paul,  can  do  any  thing." 
He  took  hold  of  the  little  hand,  and  beat  it  softly  against  one 
of  his  own,  as  he  said  so. 

But  Paul  got  his  hand  free  as  soon  as  he  could  ;  and  rub- 
bing it  gently  to  and  fro  on  the  elbow  of  his  chair,  as  if  his 
wit  were  in  the  palm,  and  he  were  sharpening  it — and  look- 
ing at  the  fire  again,  as  though  the  fire  had  been  his  adviser 
and  prompter — repeated,  after  a  short  pause  : 

"  Any  thing,  papa  ?  " 

"Yes.     Anything — almost,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Any  thing  means  every  thing,  don't  it,  papa  ?  "  asked  his 
son  :  not  observing,  or  possibly  not  understanding,  the 
qualification. 

"  It  includes  it  :  yes,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Why  didn't  money  save  me  my  mamma  ?  "  returned  the 
child.     ''  It  isn't  cruel,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Cruel !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  setting  his  neckcloth,  and 
seeming  to  resent  the  idea.  "  No.  A  good  thing  can't  be 
cruel." 

"  If  it's  a  good  thing,  and  can  do  any  thing,"  said  the  litt'e 
fellow,  thoughtfully,  as  he  looked  back  at  the  fire,  "  I  v»^ondtr 
why  it  didn't  save  me  my  mamma." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON. 


103 


He  didn't  ask  the  question  of  his  father  this  time.  Perhaps 
he  had  seen,  with  a  child's  quickness,  that  it  had  already  made 
his  father  uncomfortable.  But  he  repeated  the  thought 
aloud,  as  if  it  were  quite  an  old  one  to  him,  and  had  troubled 
him  very  much  ;  and  sat  with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand, 
still  cogitating  and  looking  for  an  explanation  in  the  fire. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  recovered  from  his  surprise,  not  to 
say  his  alarm  (for  it  was  the  very  first  occasion  on  which 
the  child  had  ever  broached  the  subject  of  his  mother  to  him, 
though  he  had  had  him  sitting  by  his  side,  in  this  same 
manner,  evening  after  evening),  expounded  to  him  how 
that  money,  though  a  very  potent  spirit,  never  to  be  dispar- 
aged on  any  account  whatever,  could  not  keep  people  alive 
whose  time  was  come  to  die  ;  and  how  that  we  must  all  die, 
unfortunately,  even  in  the  City,  though  we  were  never  so 
rich.  But  how  that  money  caused  us  to  be  honored,  feared, 
respected,  courted,  and  admired,  and  made  us  powerful  and 
glorious  in  the  eyes  of  all  men  ;  and  how  that  it  could,  very 
often,  even  keep  off  death,  for  a  long  time  together.  How, 
for  example,  it  had  secured  to  his  mamma  the  services  of 
Mr.  Pilkins,  by  which  he,  Paul,  had  often  profited  himself  ; 
likewise  of  the  great  Doctor  Parker  Peps,  whom  he  had  never 
known.  And  how  it  could  do  all  that  could  be  done.  This, 
with  more  to  the  same  purpose,  Mr.  Dombey  instilled  into 
the  mind  of  his  son,  who  listened  attentively,  and  seemed  to 
understand  the  greater  part  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

*'  It  can't  make  me  strong  and  quite  well,  either,  papa  ;  can 
it  ?  "  asked  Paul,  after  a  short  silence  ;  rubbing  his  tiny  hands. 

"  Why,  you  are  strong  and  quite  well,"  returned  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.    "Are  you  not  !  " 

Oh  !  the  age  of  the  face  that  was  turned  up  again,  with 
an  expression,  half  of  melancholy,  half  of  slyness,  on  it  ! 

"  You  are  as  strong  and  well  as  such  little  people  usually 
are  !     Eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Florence  is  older  than  I  am,  but  I'm  not  as  strong  and 
well  as  Florence,  I  know,"  returned  the  child  ;  "  but  I 
believe  that  when  Florence  was  as  little  as  me  she  could 
play  a  great  deal  longer  at  a  time  without  tiring  herself.  I 
am  so  tired  sometimes,"  said  little  Paul,  warming  his  hands, 
and  looking  in  between  the  bars  of  the  grate,  as  if  some 
ghostly  puppet-show  were  performing  there,  "  and  my  bones 
ache  so  (Wickam  says  it's  my  bones),  that  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 


104  DOMSEY   AND   SON. 

"  Ay  !  But  that's  at  night,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing 
his  own  chair  closer  to  his  son's,  and  laying  his  hand  gently 
on  his  back  ;  '^  little  people  should  be  tired  at  night,  for 
then  they  sleep  well." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  at  night,  papa,"  returned  the  child,  "  it's  in 
the  day  ;  and  I  lie  down  in  Florence's  lap,  and  she  sings  to 
me.     At  night  I  dream  about  such  cu-ri-ous  things  !  " 

And  he  went  on  warming  his  hands  again,  and  thinking 
about  them,  hke  an  old  man  or  a  young  goblin. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  so  astonished,  and  so  uncomfortable, 
and  so  perfectly  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the  conversation, 
that  he  could  only  sit  looking  at  his  son  by  the  light  of  the 
fire,  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  back,  as  if  it  were  detained 
there  by  some  magnetic  attraction.  Once  he  advanced  his 
other  hand,  and  turned  the  contemplative  face  toward  his 
own  for  a  moment.  But  it  sought  the  fire  again  as  soon  as 
he  released  it  ;  and  remained,  addressed  toward  the  flicker- 
ing blaze,  until  the  nurse  appeared,  to  summon  him  to  bed. 

"  I  want  Florence  to  come  for  me,"  said  Paul. 

*'  Won't  you  come  with  your  poor  Nurse  Wickam,  Master 
Paul  ?  "  inquired  that  attendant,  with  great  pathos. 

"  No,  I  won't,"  replied  Paul,  composing  himself  in  his 
;rm-chair  again,  like  the  master  of  the  house. 

Invoking  a  blessing  upon  his  innocence,  Mrs.  Wickam 
A^ithdrew,  and  presently  Florence  appeared  in  her  stead. 
The  child  immediately  started  up  with  sudden  readiness  and 
animation,  and  raised  toward  his  father,  in  bidding  him 
good-night,  a  countenance  so  much  brighter,  so  much 
younger,  and  so  much  more  child-like  altogether,  that  Mr. 
Dombey,  while  he  felt  greatly  re-assured  by  the  change,  was 
quite  amazed  at  it. 

After  they  had  left  the  room  together,  he  thought  he 
heard  a  soft  voice  singing  ;  and  remembering  that  Paul  had 
said  his  sister  sung  to  him,  he  had  the  curiosity  to  open  the 
door  and  listen,  and  look  after  them.  She  was  toiling  up 
the  great,  wide,  vacant  staircase,  with  him  in  her  arms  ;  his 
head  was  lying  on  her  shoulder,  one  of  his  arms  thrown 
negligently  round  her  neck.  So  they  went,  toiling  up  ;  she 
singing  all  the  way,  and  Paul  sometimes  crooning  out  a 
feeble  accompaniment.  Mr.  Dombey  looked  after  them 
until  they  reached  the  top  of  the  staircase — not  without 
halting  to  rest  by  the  way — and  passed  out  of  his  sight  ; 
and  then  he  still  stood  gazing  upward,  until  the  dull  rays  of 


DOMBEY   AND    SoN.  105 

the  moon,  glimmering  in  a  melancholy  manner  through  the 
dim  skv-light,  sent  him  back  to  his  own  room. 

Mrs.'  Chick  and  Miss  Tox  were  convoked  in  comicil  at 
dinner  next  day  ;  and  when  the  cloth  was  removed,  Mr. 
Dombev  opened  the  proceedings  by  requiring  to  be  informed, 
without  any  gloss  or  reservation,  whether  there  was  any 
thing  the  matter  with  Paul,  and  what  Mr.  Pilkins  said 
about  him. 

''  For  the  child  is  hardly,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  as  stout  as 
I  could  wish." 

"  With  vour  usual  happv  discrimination,  my  dear  Paul," 
returned  Mrs.  Chick,  "  you  have  hit  the  point  at  once.  Our 
darling  is  not  altogether  as  stout  as  we  could  wish.  The 
fact  is,  that  his  mind  is  too  much  for  him.  His  soul  isa 
great  deal  too  large  for  his  frame.  I  am  sure  the  way  in 
which  that  dear  child  talks  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shaking  her 
head  ;  ''no  one  would  believe.  His  expression,  Lucretia, 
only  yesterday  upon  the  subject  of  funerals  ! — " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  interrupting  her  testily, 
"  that  some  of  those  persons  up  stairs  suggest  improper  sub- 
jects to  the  child.  He  was  speaking  to  me  last  night  about 
his— about  his  bones,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  laying  an  irritated 
stress  upon  the  word.  "  What  on  earth  has  any  body  to  do 
with  the— with  the— bones  of  my  son  ?  He  is  not  a  living 
skeleton,  I  suppose." 

"Very  far  from  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  unspeakable 
expression. 

"  I  hope  so,"  returned  her  brother.  "  Funerals  again  ! 
who  talks  to  the  child  of  funerals  ?  We  are  not  undertakers, 
or  mutes,  or  grave-diggers,  I  believe." 

"  Very  far  from  it,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  with  the  same 
profound  expression  as  before. 

"Then  who  puts  such  things  into  his  head?"  said  Mr. 
Dombey.  "  Really  I  was  quite  dismayed  and  shocked  last 
night.     Who  puts  such  things  into  his  head,  Louisa  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Paul,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  it  is  of  no  use  inquiring.  I  do  not  think,  I  will  tell 
you  candidly,  that  Wickam  is  a  person  of  very  cheerful  spirit, 
or  what  one  would  call  a — " 

"  A  daughter  of  Momus,"  Miss  Tox  softly  suggested. 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  ;  "  but  she  is  exceedingly 
attentive  and  useful,  and-  not  at  all  presumptuous  ;  indeed  I 
never  saw  a  more  biddable  woman.     If  the  dear  child,"  pur- 


io6  DOMBEY  AND     SON. 

sued  Mrs.  Chick,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  summing  up 
what  had  been  previously  quite  agreed  upon,  instead  of  say- 
ing it  all  for  the  first  time,  "is  a  little  weakened  by  that  last 
attack,  and  is  not  in  quite  such  vigorous  health  as  we  could 
wish  ;  and  if  he  has  some  temporary  weakness  in  his  system, 
and  does  occasionally  seem  about  to  lose,  for  the  moment, 
the  use  of  his — " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  afraid  to  say  limbs,  after  Mr.  Dombey's 
recent  objection  to  bones,  and  therefore  waited  for  a  sugges- 
tion from  Miss  Tox,  who,  true  to  her  office,  hazarded 
"  members." 

"  Members  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  think  the  medical  gentleman  mentioned  legs  this  morn- 
ing, my  dear  Louisa,  did  he  not  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

"  Why,  of  course  he  did,  my  love,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
mildly  reproachful.  "  How  can  you  ask  me  ?  You  heard 
him.  I  say,  if  our  dear  Paul  should  lose,  for  the  moment,  the 
use  of  his  legs,  these  are  casualties  common  to  many  children 
at  his  time  of  life,  and  not  to  be  prevented  by  any  care  or. 
caution.  The  sooner  you  understand  that,  Paul,  and  admit 
that,  the  better." 

"  Surely  you  must  know,  Louisa,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  that  I  don't  question  your  natural  devotion  to,  and  natural 
regard  for,  the  future  head  of  my  house.  Mr.  Pilkins  saw 
Paul  this  morning,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Yes,  he  did,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Miss  Tox  and 
myself  were  present.  Miss  Tox  and  myself  are  always  present. 
We  make  a  point  of  it.  Mr.  Pilkins  has  seen  him  for 
some  days  past,  and  a  very  clever  man  I  believe  him  to  be. 
He  says  it  is  nothing  to  speak  of  ;  v/hich  I  can  confirm,  if 
that  is  any  consolation  ;  but  he  recommended,  to-day,  sea- 
air.     Very  wisely,  Paul,  I  feel  convinced." 

"  Sea-air,"  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  his  sister. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  made  uneasy  by  in  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick.  ''  My  George  and  Frederick  were  both  ordered 
sea-air,  when  they  were  about  his  age  ;  and  I  have  been 
ordered  it  myself  a  great  many  times.  I  quite  agree  with 
you,  Paul,  that  perhaps  topics  may  be  incautiously  mentioned 
up  stairs  before  him,  v.'hich  it  would  be  as  well  for  his  little 
mind  not  to  expatiate  upon  ;  but  I  really  don't  see  how  that 
is  to  be  helped  in  the  case  of  a  child  of  his  quickness. 
If  he  were  a  common  child,  there  would  be  nothing  in  it.  I 
must  say  I  think,  with  Miss  Tox,  that  a  short  absence  from 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  107 

this  house,  the  air  of  Brighton,  and  the  bodily  and  mental 
training  of  so  judicious  a  person  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  for 
instance — " 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Louisa  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
aghast  at  this  familiar  introduction  of  a  name  he  had  never 
heard  before. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister,  "  is  an 
elderly  lady — Miss  Tox  knows  her  whole  history — who  has 
for  some  time  devoted  all  the  energies  of  her  mind,  with  the 
greatest  success,  to  the  study  and  treatment  of  infancy, 
and  who  has  been  extremely  well  connected.  Her  hus- 
band broke  his  heart  in — how  did  you  say  her  husband 
broke  his  heart,  my  dear?  I  forget  the  precise  circum- 
stances." 

"  In  pumping  water  out  of  the  Peruvian  mines,"  replied 
Miss  Tox. 

''  Not  being  a  pumper  himself,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
glancing  at  her  brother  ;  and  it  really  did  seem  necessary  to 
offer  the  explanation,  for  Miss  Tox  had  spoken  of  him  as  if 
he  had  died  at  the  handle  ;  "  but  having  invested  money  in 
the  speculation,  which  failed.  I  believe  that  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
management  of  children  is  quite  astonishing.  I  have  heard 
it  commended  in  private  circles  ever  since  I  was — dear  me — 
how  high  !  "  Mrs.  Chick's  eye  wandered  about  the  book- 
case near  the  bust  of  Mr.  Pitt,  which  was  about  ten  feet  from 
the  ground. 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  dear  sir," 
observed  Miss  Tox,  with  an  ingenuous  blush,  "  having  been 
so  pointedly  referred  to,  that  the  encomium  w^iich  has  been 
passed  upon  her  by  your  sweet  sister  is  well  merited.  Many 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  now  grown  up  to  be  interesting  mem- 
bers of  society,  have  been  indebted  to  her  care.  The  hum- 
ble individual  who  addresses  you  was  once  under  her  charge. 
I  believe  juvenile  nobility  itself  is  no  stranger  to  her  estab- 
lishment." 

"  Do  I  understand  that  this  respectable  matron  keeps  an 
establishment,  Miss  Tox  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  conde- 
scendingly. 

"  Why,  I  really  don't  know,"  rejoined  that  lady,  "  whether 
I  am  justified  in  calling  it  so.  It  is  not  a  preparatory  school 
by  any  means.  Should  I  express  my  meaning,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  with  peculiar  sweetness,  "  if  I  designated  it  an  infan- 
tine boarding-house  of  a  very  select  description  ?  " 


io5  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  On  an  exceedingly  limited  and  particular  scale,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  a  glance  at  her  brother. 

*'  Oh  !     Exclusion  itself  !  "  said  Miss  Tox. 

There  was  something  in  this.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  husband 
having  broken  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines  was  good. 
It  had  a  rich  sound.  Besides,  Mr.  Dombey  was  in  a  state 
almost  amounting  to  consternation  at  the  idea  of  Paul 
remaining  where  he  was  one  hour  after  his  removal  had 
been  recommended  by  the  medical  practitioner.  It  was  a 
stoppage  and  delay  upon  the  road  the  child  must  traverse, 
slowly  at  the  best,  before  the  goal  was  reached.  Their  rec-  - 
ommendation  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  great  weight  with  him  ; 
for  he  knew  that  they  were  jealous  of  any  interference  with 
their  charge,  and  he  never  for  a  moment  took  it  into  account 
that  they  might  be  solicitous  to  divide  a  responsibility,  of 
which  he  had,  as  shown  just  now,  his  own  established  views. 
Broke  his  heart  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  mused  Mr.  Dombey. 
Well,  a  very  respectable  way  of  doing  it. 

*'  Supposing  we  should  decide,  on  to-morrow's  inquiries,  to 
send  Paul  down  to  Brighton  to  this  lady,  who  would  go  with 
him  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some  reflection. 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  send  the  child  any  where  at  pres- 
ent without  Florence,  my  dear  Paul,"  returned  his  sister, 
hesitating.  "  It's  quite  an  infatuation  with  him.  He's  very 
young,  you  know,  and  has  his  fancies." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  his  head  away,  and  going  slowly  to 
the  book-case  and  unlocking  it,  brought  back  a  book  to  read. 

"  Any  body  else,  Louisa  ?  "  he  said,  without  looking  up, 
and  turning  over  the  leaves. 

"  Wickam,  of  course.  Wickam  would  be  quite  sufficient. 
I  should  say,"  returned  his  sister.  "  Paul  being  in  such 
hands  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  you  could  hardly  send  any  body 
who  would  be  a  further  check  upon  her.  You  would  go 
down  yourself  once  a  week  at  least,  of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ,  and  sat  looking  at  one 
page  for  an  hour  afterward,  without  reading  one  word. 

This  celebrated  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  marvelous,  ill-favored, 
ill-conditioned  old  lady,  of  a  stooping  figure,  with  a  mottled 
face,  like  bad  marble,  a  hook  nose,  and  a  hard  gray  eye, 
that  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  hammered  at  on  an 
anvil  without  sustaining  any  injury.  Forty  years  at  least 
had  elapsed  since  the  Peruvian  mines  had  been  the  death  of 
Mr.  Pipchin  ;  but  his  relict  still  wore  black  bombazine,  of 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  109 

such  a  lusterless,  deep,  dead,  somber  shade,  that  gas  itself 
couldn't  light  her  up  after  dark,  and  her  presence  was  a 
quencher  to  any  number  of  candles.  She  was  generally 
spoken  of  as  "  a  great  manager  "  of  children  ;  and  the 
secret  of  her  management  was,  to  give  them  every  thing 
that  they  didn't  like,  and  nothing  that  they  did — which  was 
found  to  sweeten  their  dispositions  very  much.  She  was 
such  a  bitter  old  lady,  that  one  was  tempted  to  believe  there 
had  been  some  mistake  in  the  application  of  the  Peruvian 
machinery,  and  that  all  her  waters  of  gladness  and  milk  of 
human  kindness  had  been  pumped  out  dry,  instead  of  the 
mines. 

The  castle  of  this  ogress  and  child-queller  was  in  a  steep 
by-street  at  Brighton  ;  where  the  soil  was  more  than  usually 
chalky,  flinty,  and  sterile,  and  the  houses  were  more  than 
usually  brittle  and  thin  ;  where  the  small  front-gardens  had 
the  unaccountable  property  of  producing  nothing  but  mari- 
golds, whatever  was  sown  in  them  ;  and  where  snails  were 
constantly  discovered  holding  on  to  the  street  doors,  and 
other  public  places  they  were  not  expected  to  ornament,  with 
the  tenacity  of  cupping-glasses.  In  the  winter  time  the  air 
couldn't  be  got  out  of  the  castle,  and  in  the  summer  time  it 
couldn't  be  got  in.  There  was  such  a  continual  reverber- 
ation of  wind  in  it,  that  it  sounded  like  a  great  shell,  which 
the  inhabitants  were  obliged  to  hold  to  their  ears  night  and 
day,  whether  they  liked  it  or  no.  It  was  not,  naturallv,  a 
fresh-smelling  house  ;  and  in  the  window  of  the  front  parlor, 
which  was  never  opened,  Mrs.  Pipchin  kept  a  collection  of 
plants  in  pots,  which  imparted  an  earthy  flavor  of  their  own 
to  the  establishment.  However  choice  examples  of  their 
kind,  too,  these  plants  were  of  a  kind  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  embowerment  of  Mrs.  Pipchin.  There  were  half  a  dozen 
specimens  of  the  cactus,  writhing  round  bits  of  lath,  like 
hairy  serpents  ;  another  specimen  shooting  out  blood  claws, 
like  a  green  lobster  ;  several  creeping  vegetables,  possessed 
of  sticky  and  adhesive  leaves :  and  one  uncomfortable 
flower-pot  hanging  to  the  ceiling,  which  appeared  to  have 
boiled  over,  and  tickling  people  underneath  with  its  long 
green  ends,  reminded  them  of  spiders — in  which  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  dwelling  was  uncommonly  prolific,  though  perhaps 
it  challenged  competition  still  more  proudly,  in  the  season, 
in  point  of  earwigs. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  scale  of  charges  being  high,    however^   to 


ifio  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

all  who  could  afford  to  pay,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  very  seldom 
sweetening  the  equable  acidity  of  her  nature  in  favor  of  any 
body,  she  was  held  to  be  an  old  lady  of  remarkable  firmness, 
who  was  quite  scientific  in  her  knowledge  of  the  childish 
character.  On  this  reputation,  and  on  the  broken  heart  of 
Mr.  Pipchin,  she  had  contrived,  taking  one  year  with 
another,  to  eke  out  a  tolerable  sufficient  living  since  her 
husband's  demise.  Within  three  days  after  Mrs.  Chick's 
first  allusion  to  her,  this  excellent  old  lady  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  anticipating  a  handsome  addition  to  her  current 
receipts  from  the  pocket  of  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  of  receiving 
Florence  and  her  little  brother  Paul  as  inmates  of  the  castle. 

Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox,  who  had  brought  them  down 
on  the  previous  night  (which  they  all  passed  at  a  hotel), 
had  just  driven  away  from  the  door,  on  their  journey  home 
again  ;  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  stood 
reviewing  the  new-comers,  like  an  old  soldier.  Mrs  Pip- 
chin's  middle-aged  niece,  her  good-natured  and  devoted 
slave,  but  possessing  a  gaunt  and  iron-bound  aspect,  and 
much  afflicted  v/ith  boils  on  her  nose,  was  divesting  Master 
Bitherstone  of  the  clean  collar  he  had  worn  on  parade. 
Miss  Pankey,  the  only  other  little  boarder  at  present,  had 
that  moment  been  walked  off  to  the  castle  dungeon  (an 
empty  apartment  at  the  back,  devoted  to  correctional  pur- 
poses), for  having  sniffed  thrice   in   the  presence  of  visitors. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  Paul,  "  how  do  you 
think  you  shall  like  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  you  at  all,"  repHed  Paul. 
"  I  want  to  go  away.     This  isn't  my  house." 

"  No.     It's  mine,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  It's  a  very  nasty  one,"  said  Pauk 

"  There's  a  worse  place  in  it  than  this  though,"  said  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  ''  where  we  shut  up  our  bad  boys." 

"  Has  he  ever  been  in  it  ?  "  asked  Paul  :  pointing  out 
Master  Bitherstone. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  nodded  assent  ;  and  Paul  had  enough  to 
do,  for  the  rest  of  that  day,  in  surveying  Master  Bitherstone 
from  head  to  foot,  and  watching  all  the  workings  of  his 
countenance,  v/ith  the  interest  attaching  to  a  boy  of  mysteri- 
ous and  terrible  experiences. 

At  one  o'clock  there  was  a  dinner,  chiefly  of  the  farinace- 
ous and  vegetable  kind,  when  Miss  Pankey  (a  mild  little 
blue-eyed  morsel  of  a  child,    who  was  shampoo'd    every 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  in 

morning,  and  seemed  in  danger  of  being  rubbed  away, 
altogether)  was  led  in  from  captivity  by  the  ogress  herself, 
and  instructed  that  nobody  who  sniffed  before  visitors  ever 
went  to  heaven.  When  this  great  truth  had  been  thoroughly 
impressed  upon  her,  she  w^as  regaled  with  rice  ;  and  subse- 
quently repeated  the  form  of  grace  established  in  the  castle, 
in  which  there  was  a  special  clause,  thanking  Mrs.  Pipchin 
for  a  good  dinner.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  niece,  Berinthia,  took 
cold  pork.  I^Irs.  Pipchin,  whose  constitution  required 
warm  nourishment,  made  a  special  repast  of  mutton-chops, 
which  were  brought  in  hot  and  hot,  between  tv/o  plates,  and 
smelled  very  nice. 

As  it  rained  after  dinner,  and  they  couldn't  go  out  walk- 
ing on  the  beach,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  required 
rest  after  chops,  they  went  away  with  Berry  (otherwise  Ber- 
inthia) to  the  dungeon  ;  an  empty  room  looking  out  upon  a 
chalk  wall  and  a  water-butt,  and  made  ghastly  by  a  ragged 
fire-place  without  any  stove  in  it.  Enlivened  by  company, 
however,  this  was  the  best  place  after  all  ;  for  Berry  played 
with  them  there,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  a  game  at  romps  as 
much  as  they  did  ;  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  knocking  angrily  at 
the  wall,  like  the  Cock  Lane  Ghost  revived,  they  left  off,  and 
Berry  told  them  stories  in  a  whisper  until  twilight. 

For  tea  there  was  plenty  of  milk  and  water,  and  bread 
and  butter,  with  a  little  black  tea-pot  for  Mrs.  Pipchin  and 
Berry,  and  buttered  toast  unlimited  for  Mrs.  Pipchin,  which 
was  brought  in,  hot  and  hot,  like  the  chops.  Though  Mrs. 
Pipchin  got  very  greasy,  outside,  over  this  dish,  it  didn't 
seem  to  lubricate  her  internally,  at  all  ;  for  she  was  as  fierce 
as  ever,  and  the  hard  gray  eye  knew  no  softening. 

After  tea.  Berry  brought  out  a  little  work-box,  with  the 
Royal  Pavilion  on  the  lid,  and  fell  to  working  busily  ;  while 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  having  put  on  her  spectacles  and  opened  a 
great  volume  bound  in  green  baize,  began  to  nod.  And 
whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  caught  herself  falling  forward  into  the 
fire,  and  woke  up,  she  filliped  Master  Bitherstone  on  the  nose 
for  nodding  too. 

At  last  it  was  the  children's  bed-time,  and  after  prayers 
they  went  to  bed.  As  little  Miss  Pankey  was  afraid  of  sleep- 
ing alone  in  the  dark,  }^Irs.  Pipchin  always  made  a  point  of 
driving  her  up  stairs  herself,  like  a  sheep  ;  and  it  was  cheer- 
ful to  hear  Miss  Pankey  moaning  long  afterward,  in  the  least 
eligible  chamber,  and  Mrs.  Pipchin  now  and  then  going  in  to 


112  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

shake  her.  At  about  half -past  nine  o'clock  the  odor  of  a 
warm  sweet-bread  (Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  wouldn't  go 
to  sleep  without  sweet-bread)  diversified  the  prevailing  frag- 
rance of  the  house,  which  Mrs.  Wickam  said  was  ''  a  smell  of 
building  ;  "  and  slumber  fell  upon  the   castle  shortly  after. 

The  breakfast  next  morning  was  like  the  tea  over  night, 
except  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  her  roll  instead  of  toast,  and 
seemed  a  little  more  irate  when  it  was  over.  Master  Bither- 
stone  read  aloud  to  the  rest  a  pedigree  from  Genesis  (judic- 
iously selected  by  Mrs.  Pipchin),  getting  over  the  names 
with  the  ease  and  clearness  of  a  person  tumbling  up  the 
tread-mill.  That  done,  Miss  Pankey  was  borne  away  to  be 
shampoo'd  ;  and  Master  Bitherstone  to  have  something  else 
done  to  him  with  salt  water,  from  which  he  always  returned 
very  blue  and  dejected.  Paul  and  Florence  went  out  in  the 
meantime  on  the  beach  with  Wickam — who  was  constantly 
in  tears — and  at  about  noon  Mrs.  Pipchin  presided  over 
some  Early  Readings.  It  being  a  part  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
system  not  to  encourage  a  child's  mind  to  develop  and 
expand  itself  like  a  young  flower,  but  to  open  it  by  force  like 
an  oyster,  the  moral  of  these  lessons  was  usually  of  a  violent 
and  stunning  character  :  the  hero — a  naughty  boy — seldom, 
in  the  mildest  catastrophe,  being  finished  off  by  any  thing 
less  than  a  lion,  or  a  bear. 

Such  was  life  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's.  On  Saturday  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  came  down  ;  and  Florence  and  Paul  would  go  to  his 
hotel,  and  have  tea.  They  passed  the  whole  of  Sunday 
with  him,  and  generally  rode  out  before  dinner  ;  and  on 
these  occasions  Mr.  Dombey  seemed  to  grow,  like  Falstaff's 
assailants,  and  instead  of  being  one  man  in  buckram,  to 
become  a  dozen.  Sunday  evening  was  the  most  melancholy 
evening  in  the  week  ;  for  Mrs.  Pipchin  always  made  a  point 
of  being  particularly  cross  on  Sunday  nights.  Miss  Pankey 
was  generally  brought  back  from  an  aunt's  at  Rottingdean, 
in  deep  distress  ;  and  Master  Bitherstone,  whose  relatives 
were  all  in  India,  and  who  was  required  to  sit,  between  the 
services,  in  an  erect  position  with  his  head  against  the  parlor 
wall,  neither  moving  hand  nor  foot,  suffering  so  acutely  in 
his  young  spirits  that  he  once  asked  Florence,  on  a  Sunday 
night,  if  she  could  give  him  any  idea  of  the  way  back  to  Ben- 
gal. 

But  it  was  generally  said  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  a  woman 
of  system  with  children  ;  and  no  doubt  she  was.     Certainly 


DOMBEY   AND   SON  113 

the  wild  ones  went  home  tame  enough,  after  sojourning  for 
a  few  months  beneath  her  hospitable  roof.  It  was  generally 
said,  too,  that  it  was  highly  creditable  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  to 
have  devoted  herself  to  this  way  of  life,  and  to  have  made 
such  a  sacrifice  of  her  feelings,  and  such  a  resolute  stand 
tigainst  her  troubles,  when  Mr.  Pipchin  broke  his  heart  in 
the  Peruvian  mines 

At  this  exemplary  old  lady  Paul  would  sit  staring  in  his 
little  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  for  any  length  of  time.  He  never 
seemed  to  know  what  weariness  was,  when  he  was  looking 
fixedly  at  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  was  not  fond  of  her  ;  he  was 
not  afraid  of  her  ;  but  in  those  old,  old  moods  of  his,  she 
seemed  to  have  a  grotesque  attraction  for  him.  There  he 
would  sit,  looking  at  her,  and  warming  his  hands,  and  look- 
ing at  her,  until  he  sometimes  quite  confounded  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, ogress  as  she  was.  Once  she  asked  him,  when  they 
were  alone,  what  he  was  thinking  about. 

"  You,"  said  Paul,  without  the  least  reserve. 

"  And  what  are  you  thinking  about  me  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Pipchin. 

"  I'm  thinking  how  old  you  must  be,"  said  Paul. 

"  You  mustn't  say  such  things  as  that,  young  gentleman," 
returned  the  dame.     "  That'll  never  do." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Paul. 

"  Because  it's  not  polite,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  snappishly. 

"Not  polite?"  said  Paul. 

"  No." 

"It's  not  polite,"  said  Paul,  innocently,  "  to  eat  all  the 
mutton-chops  and  toast,  Wickam  says." 

"  Wickam,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  coloring,  "  is  a  wicked, 
impudent,  bold-faced  hussy." 

"  What's  that  ? "  inquired  Paul. 

"  Never  you  mind,  sir,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  Remem- 
ber the  story  of  the  little  boy  that  was  gdred  to  death  by  a 
mad  bull  for  asking  questions." 

"  If  the  bull  was  mad,"  said  Paul,  "  how  did  Ae  know  that 
the  boy  had  asked  questions  ?  Nobody  can  go  and  whisper 
secrets  to  a  mad  bull.     I  don't  believe  that  story." 

"  You  don't  believe  it,  sir  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
amazed. 

"No,"  said  Paul. 

"  Not  if  it  should  happen  to  have  been  a  tame  bull,  you 
little  infidel  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 


114  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

As  Paul  had  not  considered  the  subject  in  that  Ught,  and 
had  founded  his  conclusions  on  the  alleged  lunacy  of  the 
bull,  he  allowed  himself  to  be  put  down  for  the  present.  But 
he  sat  turning  it  over  in  his  mind,  with  such  an  obvious 
intention  of  fixing  Mrs.  Pipchin  presently,  that  even  that  hardy 
old  lady  deemed  it  prudent  to  retreat  until  he  should  have 
forgotten  the  subject. 

From  that  time,  Mrs.  Pipchin  appeared  to  have  something 
of  the  same  odd  kind  of  attraction  toward  Paul,  as  Paul  had 
toward  her.  She  would  make  him  move  his  chair  to  her 
side  of  the  fire,  instead  of  sitting  opposite  ;  and  there  he  would 
remain  in  a  nook  between  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  the  fender, 
with  all  the  light  of  his  little  face  absorbed  into  the  black 
bombazine  drapery,  studying  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  her 
countenance,  and  peering  at  the  hard  gray  eye,  until  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin was  sometimes  fain  to  shut  it  on  pretense  of  dozing. 
Mrs.  Pipchin  had  an  old  black  cat,  who  generally  lay  coiled 
upon  the  center  foot  of  the  fender,  purring  egotistically,  and 
winking  at  the  fire  until  the  contracted  pupils  of  his  eyes  were 
like  two  notes  of  admiration.  The  good  old  lady  might  have 
been — not  to  record  it  disrespectfully — a  witch,  and  Paul  and 
the  cat  her  two  familiars,  as  they  all  sat  by  the  fire  together. 
It  would  have  been  quite  in  keeping  with  the  appearance  of 
the  party  if  they  had  all  sprung  up  the  chimney  in  a  high 
wind  one  night,  and  never  been  heard  of  any  more. 

This,  however,  never  came  to  pass.  The  cat,  and  Paul, 
and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  were  constantly  to  be  found  in  their 
usual  places  after  dark  ;  and  Paul,  eschewing  the  compan- 
ionship of  Master  Bitherstone,  went  on  studying  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, and  the  cat,  and  the  fire,  night  after  night,  as  if  they 
were  a  book  of  necromancy,  in  three  volumes. 

Mrs.  Wickam  put  her  own  construction  on  Paul's  eccen- 
tricities :  and  being  confirmed  in  her  low  spirits  by  a  per- 
plexed view  of  chimneys  from  the  room  where  she  was 
accustomed  to  sit,  and  by  the  noise  of  the  wind,  and  by  the 
general  dullness  (gashliness  was  Mrs.  Wickam's  strong 
expression)  of  her  present  life,  deduced  the  most  dismal 
reflections  from  the  foregoing  premises.  It  was  a  part  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  policy  to  prevent  her  own  *'  young  huzzy" — 
that  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  generic  name  for  female  servant 
• — from  communicating  with  Mrs.  Wickam  :  to  which  end 
she  devoted  much  of  her  time  to  concealing  herself  behind 
doors,  and  springing  out  on  that  devoted  maiden,  whenever 


LISTENING   TO   THE  SBA.  ,  ,'    '^  "]    ] 


'     >  3  >      »       a  J       J       > 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  115 

she  made  an  approach  toward  Mrs.  Wickam's  apart- 
ment. But  Berry  was  free  to  hold  what  converse  she  could 
in  that  quarter  consistently  with  the  discharge  of  the  multi- 
farious duties  at  which  she  toiled  incessantly  from  morning 
to    night  ;  and    to    Berry  Mrs.    Wickam  unburdened    her 

mind. 

"  What  a  pretty  fellow  he  is  when  he's  asleep  ! "  said 
Berrv,  stopping  to  look  at  Paul  in  bed,  one  night  when  she 
took  up  Mrs.  Wickam's  supper. 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Wickam.     "  He  need  be." 

"  Why,  he's  not  ugly   when  he's  awake,"  observed  Berry. 

"No,  ma'am.  Oh,  no.  No  more  was  my  uncle's  Betsey 
Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam. 

Berry  looked  as  if  she  would  like  to  trace  the  connection 
of  ideas  between  Paul  Dombey  and  Mrs.  Wickam's  uncle's 
Betsey  Jane. 

*'  My  uncle's  wife,"  Mrs.  Wickam  went  on  to  say,  "  died 
just  like  his  mamma.  My  uncle's  child  took  on  just  as 
Master  Paul  do.  My  uncle's  child  made  people's  blood  run 
cold,  sometimes,  she  did  !  " 

"  How  ?  "  asked  Berry. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  sat  up  all  night  alone  with  Betsey  Jane  !" 
said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  not  if  you'd  have  put  AVickam  into 
business  next  morning  for  herself.  I  couldn't  have  done  it, 
Miss  Berry." 

Miss  Berry  naturally  asked,  why  not  ?  But  Mrs.  Wickam, 
agreeably  to  the  usage  of  some  ladies  in  her  condition, 
pursued  her  own  branch  of  the  subject  without  any  com- 
punction. 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "  was  as  sweet  a 
child  as  I  could  wish  to  see.  I  couldn't  wish  to  see  a  sweeter. 
Every  thing  that  a  child  could  have  in  the  way  of  illnesses, 
Betsey  Jane  had  come  through.  The  cramps  was  as  common 
to  heV,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  "as  biles  is  to  yourself.  Miss 
Berry."     Miss  Berry  involuntarily  wrinkled  her  nose. 

"  But  Betsey  Jane,"  said  Mrs.  W^ickam,  lowering  her  voice, 
and  looking  '  around  the  room,  and  toward  Paul  in  bed, 
"  had  been  minded,  in  her  cradle,  by  her  departed  mother. 
I  couldn't  say  how,  nor  I  couldn't  say  when,  nor  I  couldn't 
say  whether  the  dear  child  knew  it  or  not,  but  Betsey  Jane 
had  been  watched  by  her  mother.  Miss  Berry  !  You  may  say 
nonsense  !  I  ain't  offended,  miss.  I  hope  you  may  be  able 
to  think  in  your  own  conscience  that  it  is  nonsense  ;  you'll 


ii6  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

find  your  spirits  all  the  better  for  it  in  this — you'll  excuse 
my  being  so  free — in  this  burying-ground  of  a  place  ;  which 
is  wearing  of  me  down.  Master  Paul's  a  little  restless  in  his 
sleep.     Pat  his  back,  if  you  please." 

"  Of  course  you  think,"  said  Berry,  gently  doing  what  she 
was  asked,  that  '*  he  has  been  nursed  by  his  mother,  too  ?  " 

"  Betsey  Jane,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam  in  her  most  solemn 
tones,  "  was  put  upon  as  that  child  has  been  put  upon,  and 
changed  as  that  child  has  changed.  I  have  seen  her  sit, 
often  and  often,  think,  think,  thinking,  like  him.  I  have 
seen  her  look,  often  and  often,  old,  old,  old,  like  him.  I  have 
heard  her,  many  a  time,  talk  just  like  him.  I  consider  that 
child  and  Betsey  Jane  on  the  same  footing  entirely,  Miss 
Berry." 

"  Is  your  uncle's  child  alive  ?  "  asked  Berry. 

"  Yes,  miss,  she  is  alive,"  returned  Mrs.  Wickam  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  for  it  was  evident  Miss  Berry  expected  the 
reverse  ;  "  and  is  married  to  a  silver-chaser.  Oh  yes,  miss, 
She  is  alive,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  laying  strong  stress  on  her 
nominative  case. 

It  being  clear  that  somebody  was  dead,  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece  inquired  who  it  was. 

"  I  wouldn't  wish  to  make  you  uneasy,"  returned  Mrs. 
Wickam,  pursuing  her  supper.     ^'  Don't  ask  me." 

This  was  the  surest  way  of  being  asked  again.  Miss  Berry 
repeated  her  question,  therefore  ;  and  after  some  resistance 
and  reluctance,  Mrs.  Wickam  laid  down  her  knife,  and  again 
glancing  round  the  room  and  at  Paul  in  bed,  replied  : 

"  She  took  fancies  to  people  ;  whimsical  fancies,  some  of 
them  ;  others,  affections  that  one  might  expect  to  see — only 
stronger  than  common.     They  all  died." 

This  was  so  very  unexpected  and  awful  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
niece,  that  she  sat  upright  on  the  hard  edge  of  the  bedstead 
breathing  short,  and  surveying  her  informant  with  looks  of 
undisguised  alarm. 

Mrs.  Wickam  shook  her  left  forefinger  stealthily  toward 
the  bed  where  Florence  lay  ;  then  turned  it  upside  down, 
and  made  several  emphatic  points  at  the  floor  ;  immedi- 
ately below  which  was  the  parlor  in  which  Mrs.  Pipchin  habit- 
ually consumed  the  toast. 

"  Remember  my  words.  Miss  Berry,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam, 
"and  be  thankful  that  Master  Paul  is  not  too  fond  of 
you.     I  am,   that  he's  not  too  fond  of  me,  I    assure   you  ; 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  117 

though  there  isn't  much  to  live  for— you'll  excuse  my  being 
so  free — in  this  jail  of  a  house  !  " 

Miss  Berry's  emotion  might  have  led  to  her  pattmg  Paul 
joo  hard  on 'the  back,  or  might  have  produced  a  cessation 
of  that  soothing  monotony,  but  he  turned  in  his  bed  just  now, 
and,  presently  awaking,  sat  up  in  it  with  his  hair  hot  and  wet 
from  the  effects  of  some  childish  dream,  and  asked  for 
Florence. 

She  was  out  of  her  own  bed  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  ; 
and  bending  over  his  pillow  immediately,  sang  him  to  sleep 
again.  Mrs.  Wickam  shaking  her  head,  and  letting  fall 
several  tears,  pointed  out  the  little  group  to  Berry,  and  turned 
her  eves  up  to  the  ceiling. 

"Good-night,  miss!"  said  Wickam,  softly.  "Good- 
night !  Your  aunt  is  an  old  lady.  Miss  Berry,  and  it's  what 
you  must  have  looked  for,  often." 

This  consolatory  farewell,  Mrs.  Wickam  accompanied  with 
a  look  of  heartfelt  anguish  ;  and  being  left  alone  with  the  two 
children  again,  and  becoming  conscious  that  the  wind  was 
blowing  mournfully,  she  indulged  in  melancholy— that 
cheapest  and  most '  accessible  of  luxuries— until  she  was 
overpowered  by  slumber. 

Although  the  niece  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  did  not  expect  to  find 
that  exemplary  dragon  prostrate  on  the  hearthrug  when  she 
went  down  stairs,  she  was  relieved  to  find  her  unusually 
fractious  and  severe,  and  with  every  present  appearance  of 
intending  to  live  a  long  time  to  be  a  comfort  to  all  who  knew 
her.  Nor  had  she  any  symptoms  of  declining,  in  the  course 
of  the  ensuing  week,  when  the  constitutional  viands  still 
continued  to  disappear  in  regular  succession,  notwithstandmg 
that  Paul  studied  her  as  attentively  as  ever,  and  occupied 
her  usual  seat  between  the  black  skirts  and  the  fender,  with 
unwavering  constancy. 

But  as  Paul  himself  was  no  stronger  at  the  expiration  of 
that  time  than  he  had  been  on  his  first  arrival,  though  he 
looked  much  healthier  in  the  face,  a  little  carriage  was  got  for 
him,  in  which  he  could  He  at  his  ease,  with  an  alphabet 
and  other  elementary  works  of  reference,  and  be  wheeled 
down  to  the  seaside.  Consistent  in  his  odd  tastes,  the  child 
set  aside  a  ruddy-faced  lad  who  was. proposed  as  the  drawer 
of  this  carriage,  and  selected,  instead,  his  grandfather— a 
weazen,  old,  crab-faced  man,  in  a  suit  of  battered  ofl-skin, 
who  had  got   tough  and  stringy  from  long  pickling  in  salt 


ii8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

water,  and  who  smelled  like  a  weedy  sea-beach  when  the  tide 
is  out. 

With  this  notable  attendant  to  pull  him  along,  and  Florence 
always  walking  by  his  side,  and  the  despondent  Wickam 
bringing  up  the  rear,  he  went  down  to  the  margin  of  the 
ocean  every  day  ;  and  there  he  would  sit  or  lie  in  his  car- 
riage for  hours  together  :  never  so  distressed  as  by  the  com- 
pany of  children — Florence  alone  excepted,  always. 

"  Go  away,  if  you  please,"  he  would  say  to  any  child  who 
came  to  bear  him  company.  "  Thank  you,  but  I  don't 
want  you." 

Some  small  voice,  near  his  ear,  would  ask  him  how  he  was, 
perhaps. 

"  I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  he  would  answer.  "  But 
you  had  better  go  and  play,  if  you  please." 

Then  he  would  turn  his  head,  and  watch  the  child  away, 
and  say  to  Florence,  "  We  don't  want  any  others,  do  we  ? 
Kiss  me,  Floy." 

He  had  even  a  dislike,  at  such  times,  to  the  company  of 
Wickam,  and  was  well  pleased  when  she  strolled  away,  as 
she  generally  did,  to  pick  up  shells  and  acquaintances.  His 
favorite  spot  was  quite  a  lonely  one,  far  away  from  most 
loungers  ;  and  with  Florence  sitting  by  his  side  at  work,  or 
reading  to  him,  or  talking  to  him,  and  the  wind  blowing  on 
his  face,  and  the  water  coming  up  among  the  wheels  of  his 
bed,  he  wanted  nothing  more. 

"  Floy,"  he  said  one  day,  ''  where's  India,  where  that  boy's 
friends  live  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  long,  long  distance  off,"  said  Florence,  raising 
her  eyes  from  her  work. 

"  Weeks  off  ?  "  asked  Paul 

"  Yes,  dear.     Many  weeks'  journey,  night  and  day." 

''  If  you  were  in  India,  Floy,"  said  Paul,  after  being  silent 
for  a  minute,  "I  should — what  is  that  mamma  did  ?  I  forget." 

"  Loved  me  !  "  answered  Florence. 

*'  No,  no.  Don't  I  love  you  now,  Floy  ?  What  is  it  ? — 
Died.     If  you  were  in  India,  I  should  die.  Floy." 

She  hurriedly  put  her  work  aside,  and  laid  her  head  down 
on  his  pillow,  caressing  him.  And  so  would  she,  she  said,  if 
he  were  there.     He  would  be  better  soon. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  a  great  deal  better  now  !  "  he  answered.  "  I 
don't  mean  that.  I  mean  that  I  should  die  of  being  so  sorry 
and  so  lonely,  Floy  !  " 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  119 

Another  time,  in  the  same  place,  he  fell  asleep,  and  slept 
quietly  for  along  time.  Awaking  suddenly,  he  listened, 
started  up,  and  sat  listening. 

Florence  asked  him  what  he  thought  he  heard. 

"  I  want  to  know  what  it  says,"  he  answered,  looking 
steadily  in  her  face.  "  The  sea,  Floy,  what  is  it  that  it  keeps 
on  saying  ?  " 

She  told  him  that  it  was  only  the  noise  of  the  rolling  waves. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  he  said.  "  But  I  know  that  they  are  always 
saying  something.  Always  the  same  thing.  What  place  is 
over  there  ?  "     He  rose  up,  looking  eagerly  at  the  horizon. 

She  told  him  that  there  was  another  country  opposite,  but 
he  said  he  didn't  mean  that,  he  meant  further  away — further 
away  ! 

Very  often  afterward,  in  the  midst  of  their  talk,  he  wolild 
break  off,  to  try  to  understand  what  it  was  that  the  waves  were 
always  saying  ;  and  would  rise  up  in  his  couch  to  look  toward 
that  invisible  region,  far  away. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  WHICH   THE  WOODEN  MIDSHIPMAN  GETS  INTO  TROUBLE. 

That  spice  of  romance  and  love  of  the  marvelous,  of  which 
there  was  a  pretty  strong  infusion  in  the  nature  of  young 
Walter  Gay,  and  which  the  guardianship  of  his  uncle,  old 
Solomon  Gills,  had  not  very  much  weakened  by  the  waters  of 
stern  practical  experience,  was  the  occasion  of  his  attaching 
an  uncommon  and  delightful  interest  to  the  adventure  of 
Florence  with  good  Mrs.  Brown.  He  pampered  and  cher- 
ished it  in  his  memory,  especially  that  part  of  it  with  which  he 
had  been  associated  ;  until  it  became  the  spoiled  child  of  his 
fancy,  and  took  its  own  way,  and  did  what  it  liked  with  it. 

The  recollection  of  those  incidents,  and  his  own  share  in 
them,  may  have  been  made  the  more  captivating,  perhaps, 
by  the  weekly  dreamings  of  old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  on 
Sundays.  Hardly  a  Sunday  passed  without  mysterious  ref- 
erences being  made  by  one  or  other  of  those  worthy  chums  to 
Richard  Whittington  ;  and  the  latter  gentleman  had  even 
gone  so  far  as  to  purchase  a  ballad  of  considerable  antiquity, 
that  had  long  fluttered  among  many  others,  chiefly  expressive 
of  maritime  sentiments,  on  a  dead  wall  in  the  Commercial 


I20  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Road  ;  which  poetical  performance  set  forth  the  courtship 
and  nuptials  of  a  promising  young  coal-whipper  with  a  cer- 
tain "  lovely  Peg,"  the  accomplished  daughter  of  the  master, 
and  part  owner  of  a  Newcastle  collier.  In  this  stirring 
legend,  Captain  Cuttle  descried  a  profound  metaphysical 
bearing  on  the  case  of  Walter  and  Florence  ;  and  it  excited 
him  so  much,  that  on  very  festive  occasions,  as  birthdays  and 
a  few  other  non-Dominical  holidays,  he  would  roar  through 
the  whole  song  in  the  little  back  parlor  ;  making  an  amaz- 
ing shake  on  the  word  Pe — e — eg,  with  which  every  verse 
concluded,  in  compliment  to  the  heroine  of  the  piece. 

But  a  frank,  free-spirited,  open-hearted  boy,  is  not  much 
given  to  analyzing  the  nature  of  his  own  feelings,  however 
strong  their  hold  upon  him  :  and  Walter  would  have  found 
it  difficult  to  decide  this  point.  He  had  a  great  affection  for 
the  wharf  where  he  had  encountered  Florence,  and  for  the 
streets  (albeit  not  enchanting  in  themselves)  by  which  they 
had  come  home.  The  shoes  that  had  so  often  tumbled  off 
by  the  way,  he  preserved  in  his  own  room  :  and,  sitting  in  the 
little  back  parlor  of  an  evening,  he  had  drawn  a  whole  gallery 
of  fancy  portraits  of  good  Mrs.  Brown.  It  may  be  that  he 
became  a  little  smarter  in  his  dress  after  that  memorable  oc- 
casion ;  and  he  certainly  liked  in  his  leisure  time  to  walk  to- 
ward that  quarter  of  the  town  were  Mr.  Dombey's  house  was 
situated,  on  the  vague  chance  of  passing  little  Florence  in  the 
street.  But  the  sentiment  of  all  this  was  as  boyish  and 
innocent  as  could  be.  Florence  was  very  pretty,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  admire  a  pretty  face,  Florence  was  defense- 
less and  weak,  and  it  was  a  proud  thought  that  he  had 
been  able  to  render  her  any  protection  and  assistance. 
Florence  was  the  most  grateful  little  creature  in  the  world, 
and  it  was  delightful  to  see  her  bright  gratitude  beaming  in 
her  face.  Florence  was  neglected  and  coldly  looked  upon, 
and  his  breast  was  full  of  youthful  interest  for  the  slighted 
child  in  her  dull,  stately  home. 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  perhaps  some  half  a  dozen  times 
in  the  course  of  the  year,  Walter  pulled  off  his  hat  to  Florence 
in  the  street,  and  Florence  would  stop  to  shake  hands.  Mrs. 
Wickam  (who,  with  a  characteristic  alteration  of  his  name 
invariably  spoke  of  him  as  *'  Young  Graves  ")  was  so  well 
used  to  this,  knowing  the  story  of  their  acquaintance,  that 
she  took  no  heed  of  it  at  all.  Miss  Nipper,  on  the  other  hand, 
rather  looked  out  for  these  occasions  :  her  sensitive  young 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  121 

heart  being  secretly  propitiated  by  Walter's  good  looks, 
and  inclining  to  the  belief  that  its  sentiments  were  respond- 
ed to. 

In  this  way,  Walter,  so  far  from  forgetting  or  losing  sight 
of  his  acquaintance  with  Florence,  only  remembered  it  better 
and  better.  As  to  its  adventurous  beginning,  and  all  those 
little  circumstances  which  gave  it  a  distinctive  character  and 
relish,  he  took  them  into  account,  more  as  a  pleasant  story 
verv  agreeable  to  his  imagination,  and  not  to  be  dismissed 
from  it,  than  as  a  part  of  any  matter  of  fact  with  which  he 
was  concerned.  They  set  off  Florence  very  much,  to  his 
fancy  ;  but  not  himself.  Sometimes  he  thought  (and  then 
he  walked  very  fast)  what  a  grand  thing  it  would  have  been 
for  him  to  have  been  going  to  sea  on  the  day  after  that  first 
meeting,  and  to  have  gone,  and  to  have  done  wonders  there, 
and  to  have  stopped  away  a  long  time,  and  to  have  come 
back  an  admiral  of  all  the  colors  of  the  dolphin,  or  at  least  a 
post-captain  with  epaulets  of  insupportable  brightness,  and 
have  married  Florence  (then  a  beautiful  young  woman)  in 
spite  of  Mr.  Dombey's  teeth,  cravat,  and  watch-chain,  and 
borne  her  away  to  the  blue  shores  of  somewhere  or  other 
triumphantly.  But  these  flights  of  fancy  seldom  burnished 
the  brass  plate  of  Dombey  and  Son's  offices  into  a  tablet  of 
golden  hope,  or  shed  a  brilliant  luster  on  their  dirty  sky- 
lights ;  and  when  the  captain  and  Uncle  Sol  talked  about 
Rithard  Whittington  and  masters'  daughters,  Walter  felt 
that  he  understood  his  true  position  at  Dombey  and  Son's, 
much  better  than   they  did. 

So  it  was  that  he  went  on  doing  what  he  had  to  do  from 
day  to  dav,  in  a  cheerful,  painstaking,  merry  spirit  ;  and  saw 
through  the  sanguine  complexion  of  Uncle  Sol  and  Captain 
Cuttle  ;  and  yet  entertained  a  thousand  indistinct  and  vision- 
ary fancies  of  his  own,  to  which  theirs  were  work-a-day  prob- 
abilities. Such  was  his  condition  at  the  Pipchin  period, 
when  he  looked  a  little  older  than  of  yore,  but  not 
much  ;  and  was  the  same  light-footed,  light-hearted,  light- 
headed lad,  as  when  he  charged  into  the  parlor  at  the  head 
of  Uncle  Sol  and  the  imaginary  boarders,  and  lighted  him  to 
bring  up  the  Madeira. 

"  Uncle  Sol,"  said  Walter,  "  I  don't  think  you're  well. 
You  haven't  eaten  any  breakfast.  I  shall  bring  a  doctor  to 
you,  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

"  He  can't  give  me  what  I  want,  my  boy,"  said  Uncle  Sol. 


122  DOMBEY   AND   SON.  ^ 

"  At  least  he  is  in  good  practice  if  he    can^ — and  then  he 
wouldn't." 

"  What  is  it,  uncle  ?     Customers  ?  " 

*'  Ay,"  returned  Solomon,  with  a  sigh.  "  Customers 
would  do." 

"  Confound  it,  uncle  !  "  said  Walter,  putting  down  his 
breakfast-cup  with  a  clatter,  and  striking  his  hand  on  the 
table  :  "  when  I  see  the  people  going  up  and  down  the  street 
in  shoals  all  day,  and  passing  and  repassing  the  shop  every 
minute,  by  scores,  I  feel  half  tempted  to  rush  out,  collar 
somebody,  bring  him  in,  and  ma/^e  him  buy  fifty  pounds* 
worth  of  instruments  for  ready  money.  What  are  you  look- 
ing in  at  the  door  for? — "continued  Walter,  apostrophizing 
an  old  gentleman  with  a  powdered  head  (inaudibly  to  him  of 
course),  who  was  staring  at  a  ship's  telescope  with  all  his 
might  and  main.  "  Thafs  no  use.  I  could  do  that.  Come 
in  and  buy  it  !  " 

The  old  gentleman,  however,  having  satiated  his  curiosity, 
walked  calmly  away. 

"  There  he  goes  !  "  said  Walter.  "  That's  the  way  with 
'em  all.  But,  uncle — I  say,  Uncle  Sol  "—for  the  old  man 
was  meditating,  and  had  not  responded  to  his  first  appeal. 
"  Don't  be  cast  down.  Don't  be  out  of  spirits,  uncle.  When 
orders  do  come  they'll  come  in  such  a  crowd,  you  won't  be 
able  to  execute  'em." 

''  I  shall  be  past  executing  'em,  whenever  they  come,  my 
boy,"  returned  Solomon  Gills.  ''  They'll  never  come  to  this 
shop  again,  till  I  am  out  of  it." 

"  I  say,  uncle  !  You  mustn't  reallv,  you  know  !  "  urged 
W^alter.     ''  Don't  !  " 

Old  Sol  endeavored  to  assume  a  cheery  look,  and  smiled 
across  the  little  table  at  him  as  pleasantly  as  he  could. 

"  There's  nothing  more  than  usual  the  matter  ;  is  there, 
uncle  ?  "  said  Walter,  leaning  his  elbows  on  the  tea-tray,  and 
bending  over,  to  speak  the  more  confidentially  and  kindly. 
"  Be  open  with  me,  uncle,  if  there  is,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it." 

-    "No,  no,    no,"   returned   Old  Sol.     "  More  than   usual.? 
No,  no.    What  should  there  be  the  matter  more  than  usual  ?  " 

Walter  answered  with  an  incredulous  shake  of  his  head. 
"  That's  what  I  want  to  know,"  he  said,  "  and  you  ask  me  ! 
I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,  when  I  see  you  like  this,  I  am  quite 
sorry  that  I  live  with  you." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  123 

Old  Sol  opened  his  eyes  involuntarily. 

"  Yes.  Though  nobody  ever  was  happier  than  I  am  and 
always  have  been  with  you,  I  am  quite  sorry  that  I  live  with 
you,  when  I  see  you  with  any  thing  on  your  mind." 

"  I  am  a  little  dull  at  such  times,  I  know,"  observed  Sol- 
omon, meekly  rubbing  his  hands. 

"What  I  mean,  Uncle  Sol,"  pursued  Walter,  bending 
over  a  little  more  to  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  "  is,  that  then 
I  feel  you  ought  to  have,  sitting  here  and  pouring  out  the 
tea  instead  of  me,  a  nice  little  dumpling  of  a  w^fe,  you  know 
— a  comfortable,  capital,  cozy  old  lady,  who  was  just  a 
match  for  you  in  good  heart.  Here  am  I,  as  loving  a 
nephew  as  ever  was  (I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  I)  ;  but  I  am 
only  a  nephew,  and  I  can't  be  such  a  companion  to  you  when 
you're  low  and  out  of  sorts  as  she  would  have  made  herself, 
years  ago,  though  I'm  sure  I'd  give  any  money  if  I  could 
cheer  you  up.  And  so  I  say,  when  I  see  you  with  any  thing 
on  your  mind,  that  I  feel  quite  sorry  you  haven't  got  some- 
body better  about  you  than  a  blundering  young  rough-and- 
tough  boy  like  me,  who  has  got  the  will  to  console  you,  uncle, 
but  hasn't  got  the  way — hasn't  got  the  way,"  repeated 
Walter,  reaching  over  further  yet,  to  shake  his  uncle  by  the 
hand. 

"  Wally,  my  dear  boy,"  said  Solomon,  "  if  the  cozy  little 
old  lady  had  taken  her  place  in  this  parlor  five-and-forty- 
years  ago,  I  never  could  have  been  fonder  of  her  that  I  am 
of  you." 

"  /know  that,  Uncle  Sol,"  returned  Walter.  "  Lord  bless 
you,  I  know  that.  But  you  wouldn't  have  had  the  whole 
weight  of  any  uncomfortable  secrets  if  she  had  been  with 
you,  because  she  would  have  known  how  to  relieve  you  of 
'em,  and  I  don't." 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  do,"  returned  the  instrument-maker. 

"  Well,  then,  what's  the  matter.  Uncle  Sol  ? "  said  Walter, 
coaxingly.     "  Come  !     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Solomon  Gills  persisted  that  there  v/as  nothing  the  matter  ; 
and  maintained  it  so  resolutely,  that  his  nephew  had  no 
resource  but  to  make  a  very  indifferent  imitation  of  believ- 
ing him. 

"  All  I  can  say  is,  Uncle  Sol,  that  if  there  is — " 

"  But  there  isn't,"  said  Solomon. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Walter.  "Then  I've  no  more  to  say  ; 
and  that's  lucky,  for   my  time's  up  for  going  to    business. 


124  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

I  shall  look  in  by-and-by  when  I'm  out,  to  see  how  you  get 
on,  uncle.  And  mind,  uncle  !  I'll  never  believe  you  again, 
and  never  tell  you  any  thing  more  about  Mr.  Carker  the 
Junior,  if  I  find  out  that  you  have  been  deceiving  me  !  " 

Solomon  Gills  laughingly  defied  him  to  find  out  any 
thing  of  the  kind  ;  and  Walter,  revolving  in  his  thoughts  all 
sorts  of  impracticable  ways  of  making  fortunes  and  placing 
the  wooden  midshipman  in  a  position  of  independence, 
betook  himself  to  the  offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  with  a 
heavier  countenance  than  he  usually  carried  there. 

There  lived  in  those  days,  round  the  corner — in  Bishops- 
gate  Street  Without — one  Brogley,  sworn  broker  and 
appraiser,  who  kept  a  shop  where  every  description  of 
second-hand  furniture  was  exhibited  in  the  most  uncomfort- 
able aspect,  and  under  circumstances  and  in  combinations 
the  most  completely  foreign  to  its  purpose.  Dozens  of 
chairs  hooked  on  to  washing-stands,  which  with  difficulty 
poised  themselves  on  the  shoulders  of  sideboards,  which  in 
their  turn  stood  upon  the  wrong  side  of  dining-tables,  gym- 
nastic with  their  legs  upward  on  the  top  of  other  dining- 
tables,  were  among  its  most  reasonable  arrangements.  A 
banquet  array  of  dish-covers,  wine-glasses,  and  decanters 
was  generally  to  be  seen  spread  forth  upon  the  bosom  of  a 
four-post  bedstead,  for  the  entertainment  of  such  genial 
company  as  half  a  dozen  pokers  and  a  hall  lamp.  A  set  of 
window  curtains  with  no  windows  belonging  to  them,  would 
be  seen  gracefully  draping  a  barricade  of  chests  of  drawers, 
loaded  with  little  jars  from  chemists'  shops  ;  while  a  homeless 
hearth-rug,  severed  from  its  natural  companion  the  fireside, 
braved  the  shrewd  east  wind  in  its  adversity,  and  trembled  in 
melancholy  accord  with  the  shrill  complainings  of  a  cabinet 
piano,  wasting  away,  a  string  a  day,  and  faintly  resounding 
to  the  noises  of  the  street  in  its  jangling  and  distracted  brain. 
Of  motionless  clocks  that  never  stirred  a  finger,  and  seemed 
as  incapable  of  being  successfully  wound  up,  as  the  pecu- 
niary affairs  of  their  former  owners,  there  was  always  great 
choice  in  Mr.  Brogley's  shop  ;  and  various  looking-glasses, 
accidentally  placed  at  compound  interest  of  reflection 
and  refraction,  presented  to  the  eye  an  eternal  perspect- 
ive of  bankruptcy  and  ruin. 

Mr.  Brogley  himself  was  a  moist-eyed,  pink-complexioned, 
crisp-haired  man,  of  a  bulky  figure  and  an  easy  temper — 
for  that  class  of  Caius   Marius  who  sits  upon  the   ruins   of 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  125 

other  people's  Carthages,  can  keep  up  his  spirits  well  enough. 
He  had  looked  in  at  Solomon's  shop  sometimes  to  ask  a 
question  about  articles  in  Solomon's  way  of  business  ;  and 
Walter  knew  him  sufficiently  to  give  him  good-day  when 
they  met  in  the  street  ;  but  as  that  was  the  extent  of  the 
broker's  acquaintance  with  Solomon  Gills  also,  Walter  was 
not  a  little  surprised  when  he  came  back  in  the  course  of 
the  forenoon,  agreeably  to  his  promise,  to  find  Mr.  Brogley 
sitting  in  the  back  parlor  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
his  hat  hanging  up  behind  the  door. 

"Well,  Uncle  Sol!"  said  Walter.  The  old  man  was 
sitting  ruefully  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  with  his 
spectacles  over  his  eyes,  for  a  wonder,  instead  of  on  his 
forehead.     "  How  are  you  now  ?  " 

Solomon  shook  his  head,  and  waved  one  hand  toward  the 
broker,  as  introducing  him. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Walter,  with  a 
catching  in  his  breath. 

"  No,  no.  There  is  nothing  the  matter,"  said  Mr.  Brogley. 
"  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way." 

Walter  looked  from  the  broker  to  his  uncle  in  mute 
amazement. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Mr.  Brogley,  "there's  a  httle  pay- 
ment on  a  bond  debt — three  hundred  and  seventy  odd,  over 
due  :  and  I'm  in  possession." 

"  In  possession  !  "  cried  Walter,  looking  round  at  the  shop. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Mr.  Brogley,  in  confidential  assent,  and 
nodding  his  head  as  if  he  would  urge  the  advisability  of 
their  all  being  comfortable  together.  "  It's  an  execution. 
That's  what  it  is.  Don't  let  it  put  you  out  of  the  way.  I 
come  myself,  because  of  keeping  it  quiet  and  sociable.  You 
know  me.     It's  quite  private." 

"  Uncle  Sol  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

"  Wally,  my  boy,"  returned  his  uncle.  "  It's  the  first 
time.  Such  a  calamity  never  happened  to  me  before.  I'm 
an  old  man  to  begin."  Pushing  up  his  spectacles  again 
(for  they  were  useless  any  longer  to  conceal  his  emotion),  he 
covered  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  sobbed  aloud,  and  his 
tears  fell  down  upon  his  coffee-colored  waistcoat. 

"  Uncle  Sol !  Pray  !  oh  don't  !  "  exclaimed  Walter,  who 
really  felt  a  thrill  of  terror  in  seeing  the  old  man  weep. 
"  For  God's  sake  don't  do  that.  Mr.  Brogley,  what  shall  I 
do  ? " 


126  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"/should  recommend  you  looking  up  a  friend  or  so," 
said  Mr.  Brogley,  "  and  talking  it  over." 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  cried  Walter,  catching  at  any  thing. 
"Certainly!  Thankee.  Captain  Cuttle's  the  man,  uncle. 
Wait  till  I  run  to  Captain  Cuttle.  Keep  your  eye  upon  my 
uncle,  will  you,  Mr.  Brogley,  and  make  him  as  comfortable 
as  you  can  while  I  am  gone  ?  Don't  despair.  Uncle  Sol. 
Try  and  keep  a  good  heart,  there's  a  dear  fellow  !  " 

Saying  this  with  great  fervor,  and  disregarding  the  old 
man's  broken  remonstrances,  Walter  dashed  out  of  the  shop 
again  as  hard  as  he  could  go  ;  and,  having  hurried  round  to 
the  office  to  excuse  himself  on  the  plea  of  his  uncle's  sudden 
illness,  set  off,  full  speed,  for  Captain  Cuttle's  residence. 

Every  thing  seemed  altered  as  he  ran  along  the  streets. 
There  were  the  usual  entanglement  and  noise  of  carts, 
drays,  omnibuses,  wagons,  and  foot  passengers,  but  the 
misfortune  that  had  fallen  on  the  wooden  midshipman 
made  it  strange  and  new.  Houses  and  shops  were  different 
from  what  they  used  to  be,  and  bore  Mr.  Brogley's  warrant 
on  their  fronts  in  large  characters.  The  broker  seemed  to 
have  got  hold  of  the  very  churches  ;  for  their  spires  rose 
into  the  sky  with  an  unwonted  air.  Even  the  sky  itself  was 
changed,  and  had   an  execution  in  it  plainly. 

Captain  Cuttle  lived  on  the  brink  of  a  little  canal  near  the 
India  Docks,  where  there  was  a  swivel  bridge  which  opened 
now  and  then  to  let  some  wandering  monster  of  a  ship 
come  roaming  up  the  street  like  a  stranded  leviathan.  The 
gradual  change  from  land  to  water,  on  the  approach  to 
Captain  Cuttle's  lodgings,  was  curious.  It  began  with  the 
erection  of  flag-staffs,  as  appurtenances  to  public-houses  ; 
then  came  slop-sellers'  shops,  with  Guernsey  shirts,  sou'wes- 
ter hats,  and  canvas  pantaloons,  at  once  the  tightest  and  the 
loosest  of  their  order,  hanging  up  outside.  These  were 
succeeded  by  anchor  and  chain-cable  forges,  where  sledge- 
hammers were  dinging  upon  iron  all  day  long.  Then  came 
rows  of  houses,  with  little  vane-surmounted  masts  uprearing 
themselves  from  among  the  scarlet  beans.  Then  ditches. 
Then  pollard  willows.  Then  more  ditches.  Then  unac- 
countable patches  of  dirty  water,  hardly  to  be  descried, 
for  the  ships  that  covered  them.  Then,  the  air  was  per- 
fumed with  chips  ;  and  all  other  trades  were  swallowed  up 
in  mast,  oar,  and  block  making,  and  boat  building.  Then, 
the  ground  grew  marshy  and   unsettled.     Then,  there  was 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  127 

nothing  to  be  smelled  but  rum  and  sugar.  Then  Captain 
Cuttle's  lodgings — at  once  a  fii-st  floor  and  a  top  story,  in 
Brig  Place — were  close  before  you. 

The  captain  was  one  of  those  timber-looking  men,  suits 
of  oak  as  well  as  hearts,  whom  it  is  almost  imipossible  for  the 
liveliest  imagination^to  separate  from  any  part  of  their  dress, 
however  insignificant.  Accordingly,  when  Walter  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  the  captain  instantly  poked  his  head  out  of 
one  of  his  little  front  windows,  and  hailed  him,  with  the 
hard  glazed  hat  already  on  it,  and  the  shirt-collar  like  a 
sail,  and  the  wide  suit  of  blue,  all  standing  as  usual,  Walter 
was  as  fully  persuaded  that  he  was  always  in  that  state,  as  if 
the  captain  had  been  a  bird  and  those  had  been  his  feathers. 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle.  "Stand  by  and 
knock  again.     Hard  !  It's  washing-day." 

Walter,  in  his  impatience,  gave  a  prodigious  thump  with 
the  knocker. 

"  Hard  it  is  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  and  immediately 
drew  in  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  a  squall. 

Nor  v/as  he  mistaken  :  for  a  widow  lady,  with  her  sleeves 
rolled  up  to  her  shoulders,  and  her  arms  frothy  with  soap- 
suds and  smoking  with  hot  water,  replied  to  the  summons 
with  startling  rapidity.  Before  she  looked  at  Walter  she 
looked  at  the  knocker,  and  then,  measuring  him  with  her 
eyes  from  head  to  foot,  said  she  wondered  he  had  left  any  of 
it. 

"  Captain  Cuttle's  at  home,  I  know,"  said  Walter,  with 
a  conciliatory  smile. 

"  Is  he  ?  "'replied  the  widow  lady.     "  In-deed  !  " 

"  He  has  just  been  speaking  to  me,"  said  Walter,  in 
breathless  explanation. 

"  Has  he  ?  "  replied  the  widow  lady.  "  Then  p'raps  you'll 
give  him  Mrs.  MacStinger's  respects,  and  say  that  the  next 
time  he  lowers  himself  and  his  lodgings  by  talking  out 
of  winder  she'll  thank  him  to  come  down  and  open  the  door 
too  !  "■  Mrs.  MacStinger  spoke  loud,  and  listened  for  any 
observations  that  might  be  offered  from  the  first  floor. 

"  I'll  mention  it,"  said  Walter,  *'  if  you'll  have  the  good- 
ness to  let  me  in,  ma'am." 

For  he  was  repelled  by  a  wooden  fortification  extending 
across  the  door- way,  and  put  there  to  prevent  the  little 
MacStingers  in  their  moments  of  recreation  from  tumbling 
down  the  steps. 


125  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  A  boy  that  can  knock  my  door  down,"  said  Mrs.  Mac* 
Stinger,  contemptuously,  "  can  get  over  that,  I  should 
hope  !  "  But  Walter,  taking  this  as  a  permission  to  enter, 
and  getting  over  it,  Mrs.  MacStinger  immediately  demanded 
whether  an  Englishwoman's  house  was  her  castle  or  not  ; 
and  whether  she  was  to  be  broke  in  upon  by  "  raff."  On 
these  subjects  her  thirst  for  information  was  still  very 
importunate,  when  Walter,  having  made  his  way  up  the 
little  staircase  through  an  artificial  fog  occasioned  by  the 
washing,  which  covered  the  banisters  with  a  clammy  pers- 
piration, entered  Captain  Cuttle's  room,  and  found  that 
gentleman  in  ambush  behind  the'  door. 

"  Never  owed  her  a  penny,  Wal'r,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  in 
a  low  voice,  and  with  visible  marks  of  trepidation  on  his 
countenance.  "  Done  her  a  world  of  good  turns,  and  the 
children  too.     Vixen  at  times,  though.     Whew  !  " 

"  /  should  go  away.  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter. 

"  Dursn't  do  it,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain.  "  She'd 
find  me  out,  wherever  I  went.     Sit  down.     How's  Gills?" 

The  captain  was  dining  (in  his  hat)  off  cold  loin  of  mutton, 
porter,  and  some  smoking-hot  potatoes,  which  he  had  cooked 
himself,  and  took  out  of  a  little  saucepan  before  the  fire  as  he 
wanted  theni.  He  unscrewed  his  hook  at  dinner-time,  and 
screwed  a  knife  into  its  wooden  socket  instead,  with  which 
he  had  already  begun  to  peel  one  of  these  potatoes  for  Wal- 
ter. His  rooms  were  very  small,  and  strongly  impregnated 
with  tobacco-smoke,  but  snug  enough  :  every  thing  being 
stowed  away,  as  if  there  were  an  earthquake  regularly  every 
half-hour. 

"  How's  Gills  ?  "    inquired  the  captain. 

Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  recovered  his  breath,  and 
lost  his  spirits — or  such  temporary  spirits  as  his  rapid  jour- 
ney had  given  him — looked  at  his  questioner  for  a  moment, 
said  *'  Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  !  "  and  burst  into  tears. 

No  words  can  describe  the  captain's  consternation  at  this 
sight.  Mrs.  MacStinger  faded  into  nothing  before  it.  He 
dropped  the  potato  and  the  fork — and  would  have  dropped 
the  knife  too  if  he  could — and  sat  gazing  at  the  boy,  as  if  he 
expected  to  hear  next  moment  that  a  gulf  had  opened  in  the 
City,  which  had  swallowed  up  his  old  friend,  coffee-colored 
suit,  buttons,  chronometer,  spectacles,  and  all. 

But  when  Walter  told  him  what  was  really  the  matter, 
Captain  Cuttle,  after  a  moment's  reflection,   started  up  into 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  129 

full  activity.  He  emptied  out  of  a  little  tm  canister  on  the 
top  shelf  of  the  cupboard,  his  whole  stock  of  ready  money 
(amounting  to  thirteen  pounds  and  half  a  crown),  which  he 
transferred  to  one  of  the  pockets  of  his  square  blue  coat ; 
further  enriched  that  repository  with  the  contents  of  his 
plate  chest,  consisting  of  two  withered  atomies  of  tea-spoons, 
and  an  obsolete  pair  of  knock-kneed  sugar-tongs  ;  pulled 
up  his  immense  double-cased  silver  watch  from  the  depths 
in  which  it  reposed,  to  assure  himself  that  that  valuable  was 
sound  and  whole  ;  reattached  the  hook  to  his  right  wrist  ; 
and  seizing  the  stick  covered  over  with  knobs,  bade  Walter 
come  along. 

Remembering,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  virtuous 
excitement,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  might  be  lying  in  wait 
below.  Captain  Cuttle  hesitated  at  last,  not  without  glancing 
at  the  window,  as  if  he  had  some  thoughts  of  escaping  by 
that  unusual  means  of  egress,  rather  than  encounter  his 
terrible  enemy.     He  decided,  however,  in  favor  of  stratagem. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  timid  wink,  "  go  afore, 
my  lad.  Sing  out,  '  good-by.  Captain  Cuttle,'  when  you're 
in  the  passage,  and  shut  the  door.  Then  wait  at  the  corner 
of  the  street  'till  you  see  me." 

These  directions  were  not  issued  without  a  previous 
knowledge  of  the  enemy's  tactics,  for  when  Walter  got  down 
stairs,  Mrs.  MacStinger  glided  out  of  the  little  back  kitchen, 
like  an  avenging  spirit.  But  not  gliding  out  upon  the  cap- 
tain, as  she  had  expected,  she  merely  made  a  further  allu- 
sion to  the  knocker,  and  glided  in  again. 

Some  five  minutes  elapsed  before  Captain  Cuttle  could  sum- 
mon courage  to  attempt  his  escape  ;  for  Walter  waited  so  long 
at  the  street  corner,  looking  back  at  the  house,  before  there 
were  any  symptoms  of  the  hard  glazed  hat.  At  length  the 
captain  burst  out  of  the  door  with  the  suddenness  of  an 
explosion,  and  coming  toward  him  at  a  great  pace,  and 
never  once  looking  over  his  shoulder,  pretended,  as  soon  as 
they  were  well  out  of  the  street,  to  whistle  a  tune. 

"  Uncle  much  hove  down,  Wal'r  ?  "  inquired  the  captain, 
as  they  were  walking  along. 

"  I  am  afraid  so.  If  you  had  seen  him  this  morning,  you 
would  never  have  forgotten  it." 

"Walk  fast,  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  mend- 
ing his  pace  ;  "  and  walk  the  same  all  the  days  of  your  life. 
Overhaul  the  catechism  for  that  advice,  and  keep  it  !  " 


I30  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

The  captain  was  too  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  of  Solo- 
mon Gills,  mingled  perhaps  with  some  reflections  on  his  late 
escape  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  offer  any  further  quota- 
tions on  the  way  for  Walter's  moral  improvement.  They 
interchanged  no  other  word  until  they  arrived  at  Sol's  door, 
where  the  unfortunate  wooden  midshipman,  with  his  instru- 
ment at  his  eye,  seemed  to  be  surveying  the  whole  horizon 
in  search  of  some  friend  to  help  him  out  of  his  difficulty. 

"  Gills  !  "  said  the  captain,  hurrying  into  the  back  parlor, 
and  taking  him  by  the  hand  quite  tenderly.  "  Lay  your 
head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it.  All  you've 
got  to  do,"  said  the  captain,  with  the  solemnity  of  a  man 
who  was  delivering  himself  of  the  most  precious  practical 
tenets  ever  discovered  by  human  wisdom,  "  is  to  lay  your 
head  well  to  the  wind,  and  we'll  fight  through  it  !  " 

Old  Sol  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hand,  and  thanked 
him. 

Captain  Cuttle,  then,  with  a  gravity  suitable  to  the  nature 
of  the  occasion,  put  down  upon  the  table  the  two  tea-spoons 
and  the  sugar-tongs,  the  silver  watch,  and  the  ready  money  ; 
and  asked  Mr.  Brogley,  the  broker,  what  the  damage  was. 

"  Come  !  What  do  you  make  of  it  ? "  said  Captain 
Cuttle. 

"  Why,  Lord  help  you  !  "  returned  the  broker  ;  "  you 
don't  suppose  that  property's  of  any  use,  do  you  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why  ?  The  amount's  three  hundred  and  seventy  odd," 
replied  the  broker. 

"  Never  mind,"  returned  the  captain,  though  he  was 
evidently  dismayed  by  the  figures  :  "  all's  fish  that  comes  to 
your  net,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Brogley.  ''  But  sprats  ain't  whales, 
you  know." 

The  philosophy  of  this  observation  seemed  to  strike  the 
captain.  He  ruminated  for  a  minute  ;  eying  the  broker, 
meanwhile,  as  a  deep  genius  ;  and  then  called  the  instru- 
ment-maker aside. 

"  Gills,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  what's  the  bearings  of  this 
business  ?  Who's  the  creditor  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  returned  the  old  man.  "  Come  away.  Don't 
speak  before  Wally.  It's  a  matter  of  security  for  Wally's 
father — an  old  bond.  I've  paid  a  good  deal  of  it,  Ned,  but 
the  times  are  so  bad  with  me  that  I  can't  do  more  just  now. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  131 

I've  foreseen  it,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.     Not  a  word  before 
Wally,  for  all  the  world." 

"  You've  got  Xi^w^  money,  haven't  you?"  whispered  the 
captain. 

"  Yes,  yes — oh  yes — I've  got  some,"  returned  old  Sol,  first 
putting  his  hands  into  his  empty  pockets,  and  then  squeezing 
his  Welsh  wig  between  them,  as  if  he  thought  he  might 
wring  some  gold  out  of  it  ;  "  but  I — the  little  I  have  got, 
isn't  convertible,  Ned  ;  it  can't  be  got  at.  I  have  been 
trving  to  do  something  with  it  for  Wally,  and  I'm  old- 
fashioned,  and  behind  the  time.  It's  here  and  there,  and — 
and,  in  short,  it's  as  good  as  nowhere,"  said  the  old  man, 
looking  in  bewilderment  about  him. 

He  had  so  much  the  air  of  a  half-witted  person  who  had 
been  hiding  his  money  in  a  variety  of  places,  and  had  for- 
gotten where,  that  the  captain  followed  his  eyes,  not  with- 
out a  faint  hope  that  he  might  remember  some  few  hundred 
pounds  concealed  up  the  chimney,  or  down  in  the  cellar. 
But  Solomon  Gills  knew  better  than  that. 

''  I'm  behind  the  time  altogether,  my  dear  Ned,"  said  Sol, 
in  resigned  despair,  "  a  long  way.  It's  no  use  my  lagging 
on  so  far  behind  it.  The  stock  had  better  be  sold — it's 
worth  more  than  this  debt — and  I  had  better  go  and  die 
somewhere,  on  the  balance.  I  haven't  any  energy  left.  _  I 
don't  understand  things.  This  had  better  be  the  end  of  it. 
Let  'em  sell  the  stock  and  take  hwi  down,"  said  the  old  man, 
pointing  feebly  to  the  wooden  midshipman,  "and  let  us  both 
be  broken  up  together." 

"And  what  d'ye  mean  to  do  with  Wal'r  ? "  said  the 
captain.  "  There,  there  !  Sit  ye  down.  Gills,  sit  ye  down, 
and  let  me  think  o'  this.  If  I  warn't  a  man  on  a  small 
annuity,  that  was  large  enough  till  to-day,  I  hadn't  need  to 
think  of  it.  But  you  only  lay  your  head  well  to  the  wind," 
said  the  captain,  again  administering  that  unanswerable 
piece  of  consolation,  "  and  you're  all  right !  " 

Old  Sol  thanked  him  from  his  heart,  and  went  and  laid  it 
against  the  back  parlor  fire-place  instead. 

Captain  Cuttle  walked  up  and  down  the  shop  for  some 
time,  cogitating  profoundly,  and  bringing  his  bushy  black 
eyebrows  to  bear  so  heavily  on  his  nose,  like  clouds  setting  on 
a'mountain,  that  Walter  was  afraid  to  offer  any  interruption  to 
the  current  of  his  reflections.  Mr.  Brogley,  who  was  averse 
to  being  any  constraint  upon  the  party,    and  who  had  an 


,32  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

ingenious  cast  of  mind,  went,  softly  whistling,  among  thw 
stock  ;  rattling  weather-glasses,  shaking  compasses  as  if  they 
were  physic,  catching  up  keys  with  loadstones,  looking 
through  telescopes,  endeavoring  to  make  himself  acquainted 
with  the  use  of  the  globes,  setting  parallel  rulers  astride  on  lo 
his  nose,  and  amusing  himself  with  other  philosophical  trans- 
actions. 

"  Wal'r  ?  "   said  the  captain  at  last.     "  I've  got  it." 

"  Have  you.  Captain  Cuttle  ?"  cried  Walter,  with  great 
animation. 

"  Come  this  way,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  "  Thfc 
stock's  one  security.  I'm  another.  Your  governor's  the 
man  to  advance  the  money." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  !  "  faltered  Walter. 

The  captain  nodded  gravely.  *'  Look  at  him,"  he  said. 
"  Look  at  Gills.  If  they  was  to  sell  off  these  things  now, 
he'd  die  of  it.  You  know  he  would.  We  mustn't  leave  a 
stone  unturned — and  there's  a  stone  for  you." 

"  A  stone  ! — Mr.  Dombey  !  "    faltered  Walter. 

"  You  run  round  to  the  office,  first  of  all,  and  see  if  he's 
there,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  clapping  him  on  the  back. 
"  Quick  !  " 

Walter  felt  he  must  not  dispute  the  command — a  glance 
at  his  uncle  would  have  determined  him  if  he  had  felt  other- 
wise— and  disappeared  to  execute  it.  He  soon  returned,  out 
of  breath,  to  say  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  there.  It  was 
Saturday,  and  he  had  gone  to  Brighton, 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Wal'r  !  "  said  the  captain,  who  seemed 
to  have  prepared  himself  for  this  contingency  in  his  absence. 
"  We'll  go  to  Brighton.  I'll  back  you,  my  boy.  I'll  back 
you,  Wal'r.     We'll  go  to  Brighton  by  the  afternoon's  coach." 

If  the  application  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  all, 
which  was  awful  to  think  of,  Walter  felt  that  he  would  rather 
prefer  it  alone  and  unassisted,  than  backed  by  the  personal 
influence  of  Captain  Cuttle,  to  which  he  hardly  thought  Mr. 
Dombey  would  attach  much  weight.  But  as  the  captain 
appeared  to  be  of  quite  another  opinion,  and  was  bent  upon 
it,  and  as  his  friendship  was  too  zealous  and  serious  to  be 
trifled  with  by  one  so  much  younger  than  himself,  he  fore- 
bore  to  hint  the  least  objection.  Cuttle,  therefore,  taking  a 
hurried  leave  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  returning  the  ready 
money,  the  tea-spoons,  the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  silver  watch, 
to  his  pocket — with  a  view,  as  Walter  thought,  with   horror^ 


DOMBBY   AND   SON.  133 

to  making  a  gorgeous  impression  on  Mr.  Dombey — bore  him 
off  to  the  coach-office,  without  a  minute's  delay,  and  repeats 
edly  assured  him,  on  the  road,  that  he  would  stick  by  him 
to  the  last. 

CHAPTER   X. 

CONTAINING   THE   SEQUEL    OF   THE     MIDSHIPMAN'S     DISASTER. 

Major  Bagstock,  after  long  and  frequent  observation  of 
Paul,  across  Princess's  Place,  through  his  double-barreled 
opera-glass  ;  and  after  receiving  many  minute  reports,  daily, 
weekly,  and  monthly,  on  that  subject,  from  the  native  who 
kept  himself  in  constant  communication  with  Miss  Tox's 
maid  for  that  purpose  ;  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Dombey, 
sir,  was  a  man  to  be  known,  and  that  J.  B.  was  the  boy  to 
make  his  acquaintance. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  maintaining  her  reserved  behavior,  and 
frigidlv  declining  to  understand  the  major  whenever  he 
caUed  (which  he  often  did)  on  any  little  fishing  excursion 
connected  with  this  project,  the  major,  in  spite  of  his  con- 
stitutional toughness  and  slyness,  was  fain  to  leave  the  accom- 
plishment of  his  desire  in  some  measure  to  chance,  "  which," 
he  was  used  to  observe  with  chuckles  at  his  club,  "  has 
been  fifty  to  one  in  favor  of  Joey  B.,  sir,  ever  since  his  elder 
brother  died  of  Yellow  Jack  in  the  West  Indies." 

It  was  some  time  coming  to  his  aid  in  the  present  instance, 
but  it  befriended  him  at  last.  When  the  dark  servant,  with 
full  particulars,  reported  Miss  Tox  absent  on  Brighton  serv- 
ice, the  major  was  suddenly  touched  with  affectionate  rem- 
iniscences of  his  friend  Bill  Bitherstone  of  Bengal,  who  had 
written  to  ask  him,  if  he  ever  went  that  way,  to  bestow  a  call 
upon  his  only  son.  But  when  the  same  dark  servant 
reported  Paul  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and  the  major,  referring  to 
the  letter  favored  by  Master  Bitherstone  on  his  arrival  in 
England — to  which  he  had  never  had  the  least  idea  of  pay- 
ing any  attention — saw  the  opening  that  presented  itself,  he 
was  made  so  rabid  by  the  gout,  with  which  he  happened  to 
be  then  laid  up,  that  he  threw  a  footstool  at  the  dark  serv- 
ant in  return  for  his  intelligence,  and  swore  he  would  be 
the  death  of  the  rascal  before  he  had  done  with  him  :  which 
the  dark  servant  was  more  than  half  disposed  to  believe. 

At  length  the  major  being  released  from  his  fit,  went  one 


tS4  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Saturday  growling  down  to  Brighton,  with  the  native  behind 
him  ;  apostrophizing  Miss  Tox  all  the  way,  and  gloating 
over  the  prospect  of  carrying  by  storm  the  distinguished 
friend  to  whom  she  attached  so  much  mystery,  and  for  whom 
she  had  deserted  him. 

"  Would  you,  ma'am,  would  you  !  "  said  the  major,  strain- 
ing with  vindictiveness,  and  swelling  every  already  swollen 
vein  in  his  head.  "  Would  you  give  Joey  B.  the  go-by, 
ma'am  ?  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet  !  Damme,  not  yet,  sir. 
Joe  is  awake,  ma'am.  Bagstock  is  alive,  sir.  J.  B.  knows 
a  move  or  two,  ma'am.  Josh  has  his  weather-eye  open,  sir. 
You'll  find  him  tough,  ma'am.  Tough,  sir,  tough  is  Joseph. 
Tough,  and  dev-ilish  sly  !  " 

And  very  tough,  indeed.  Master  Bitherstone  found  him, 
when  he  took  that  young  gentleman  out  for  a  walk.  But 
the  major,  with  his  complexion  like  a  Stilton  cheese,  and  his 
eyes  like  a  prawn's,  went  roving  about,  perfectly  indifferent 
to  Master  Bitherstone's  amusement,  and  dragging  Master 
Bitherstone  along,  while  he  looked  about  him  high  and  low 
for  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  children. 

In  good  time  the  major,  previously  instructed  by  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  spied  out  Paul  and  Florence,  and  bore  down  upon 
them  ;  there  being  a  stately  gentleman  (Mr.  Dombey,  doubt- 
less) in  their  company.  Charging  with  Master  Bitherstone 
into  the  very  heart  of  the  little  squadron,  it  fell  out,  of 
course,  that  Master  Bitherstone  spoke  to  his  fellow-sufferers. 
Upon  that  the  major  stopped  to  notice  and  admire  them  ; 
remembered  with  amazement  that  he  had  seen  and  spoken 
to  them  at  his  friend  Miss  Tox's  in  Princess's  Place  ;  opined 
that  Paul  was  a  devilish  fine  fellow,  and  his  own  little  friend  ; 
inquired  if  he  remembered  Joey  B.  the  major  ;  and  finally, 
with  a  sudden  recollection  of  the  conventionalities  of  life, 
turned  and  apologized  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  But  my  little  friend  here,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "makes 
a  boy  of  me  again.  An  old  soldier,  sir — Major  Bagstock, 
at  your  service — is  not  ashamed  to  confess  it."  Here  the 
major  lifted  his  hat.  "  Damme,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  with 
sudden  warmth,  "  I  envy  you."  Then  he  recollected  him- 
self, and  added,  "  Excuse  my  freedom." 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  he  wouldn't  mention  it. 

"An  old  campaigner,    sir,"  said  the  major, 
dried,  sun-burned,  used-up,  invalided  old  dog  of  a  major, 
sir,  was  not  afraid  of  being  condemned  for  his  whim  by  a 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  13S 

man  like  Mr.  Dombey.     I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  Mr. 
Dombey,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  present  unworthy  representative  of  that  name, 
major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"By  G — ,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "it's  a  great  name.  It's 
a  name,  sir,"  said  the  major  firmly,  as  if  he  defied  Mr.  Dom- 
bey to  contradict  him,  and  would  feel  it  his  painful  duty  to 
bully  him  if  he  did,  "  that  is  known  and  honored  in  the 
British  possessions  abroad.  It  is  a  name,  sir,  that  a  man  is 
proud  to  recognize.  There  is  nothing  adulatory  in  Joseph 
Bagstock,  sir.  His  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of  York 
observed  on  more  than  one  occasion,  '  there  is  no  adulation 
in  Joey.  He  is  a  plain  old  soldier  is  Joe.  He  is  tough  to  a 
fault  is  Joseph  : '  but  it's  a  great  name,  sir.  By  the  Lord, 
it's  a  great  name  !  "  said  the  major,  solemnly. 

"  You  are  good  enough  to  rate  it  higher  than  it  deserves, 
perhaps,  major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  My  little  friend  here,  sir, 
will  certify  for  Joseph  Bagstock  that  he  is  a  thorough-going, 
downright,  plain-spoken,  old  Trump,  sir,  and  nothing  more. 
That  boy,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  a  lower  tone,  "  will  live  in 
history.  That  boy,  sir,  is  not  a  common  production.  Take 
care  of  him,  Mr.  Dombey." 

Mr,  Dombey  seemed  to  intimate  that  he  would  endeavor 
to  do  so. 

"  Here  is  a  boy  here,  sir,"  pursued  the  major,  confiden- 
tially, and  giving  him  a  thrust  with  his  cane.  "  Son  of  Bither- 
stone  of  Bengal.  Bill  Bitherstone  formerly  of  ours.  That 
boy's  father  and  myself,  sir,  were  sworn  friends.  Wherever 
you  went,  sir,  you  heard  of  nothing  but  Bill  Bitherstone  and 
Joe  Bagstock.  Am  I  blind  to  that  boy's  defects  ?  By  no 
means.     He's  a  fool,  sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  glanced  at  the  libeled  Master  Bitherstone, 
of  whom  he  knew  at  least  as  much  as  the  major  did,  and 
said,  in  quite  a  complacent  manner,  "  Really?  " 

"  That  is  what  he  is,  sir,"  said  the  major.  "  He's  a  fool. 
Joe  Bagstock  never  minces  matters.  The  son  of  my  old 
friend  Bill  Bitherstone,  of  Bengal,  is  a  born  fool,  sir."  Here 
the  major  laughed  till  he  was  almost  black.  "  My  little 
friend  is  destined  for  a  public  school,  I  presume,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey ?  "  said  the  major,  when  he  had  recovered. 

"  I  am  not  quite  decided,  returned  Mr.  Dombey.  "  I 
think  not.     He  is  delicate." 


136  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  If  he  s  delicate,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  you  are  right. 
None  but  the  tough  fellows  could  live  through  it,  sir,  at 
Sandhurst.  We  put  each  other  to  the  torture  there,  sir. 
We  roasted  the  new  fellows  at  a  slow  fire,  and  hung  'em  out 
of  a  three-pair-of-stairs  window,  with  their  heads  downward. 
Joseph  Bagstock,  sir,  was  held  out  of  the  window  by  the 
heels  of  his  boots,  for  thirteen  minutes  by  the  college  clock." 

The  major  might  have  appealed  to  his  countenance  in 
corroboration  of  this  story.  It  certainly  looked  as  if  he  had 
hung  out  a  little  too  long. 

"  But  it  made  us  what  we  were,  sir,"  said  the  major,  set- 
tling his  shirt  frill.  "  We  were  iron,  sir,  and  it  forged  us. 
Are  you  remaining  here,  Mr.  Dombey  ?  " 

"  I  generally  come  down  once  a  week,  major,"  returned 
that  gentleman.     "  I  stay  at  the  Bedford." 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  calling  at  the  Bedford,  sir,  if 
you'll  permit  me,"  said  the  major.  "  Joey  B.,  sir,  is  not  in 
general  a  calling  man,  but  Mr.  Dombey' s  is  not  a  common 
name.  I  am  much  indebted  to  my  little  friend,  sir,  for  the 
honor  of  this  introduction." 

Mr.  Dombey  made  a  very  gracious  reply  ;  and  Major  Bag- 
stock,  having  patted  Paul  on  the  head,  and  said  of  Florence 
that  her  eyes  would  play  the  devil  with  the  youngsters  before 
long — "and  the  oldsters  too,  sir,  if  you  come  to  that,"  added 
the  major,  chuckling  very  much — stirred  up  Master  Bither- 
stone  with  his  walking-stick,  and  departed  with  that  young 
gentleman,  at  a  kind  of  half  trot  ;  rolling  his  head  and 
coughing  with  great  dignity,  as  he  staggered  away,  with  his 
legs  very  wide  asunder. 

In  fulfillment  of  his  promise,  the  major  afterward  called 
on  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  having  referred  to  the 
army  list,  afterward  called  on  the  major.  Then  the  major 
called  at  Mr.  Dombey's  house  in  town  ;  and  came  down 
again,  in  the  same  coach  as  Mr.  Dombey.  In  short,  Mr. 
Dombey  and  the  major  got  on  uncommonly  well  together, 
and  uncommonly  fast  ;  and  Mr,  Dombey  observed  of  the 
major,  to  his  sister,  that  besides  being  quite  a  military  man 
he  was  really  something  more,  as  he  had  a  very  admirable 
idea  of  the  importance  of  things  unconnected  with  his  own 
profession. 

At  length,  Mr.  Dombey,  bringing  down  Miss  Tox  and 
Mrs.  Chick  to  see  the  children,  and  finding  the  major  again 
at  Brighton,  invited  him  to  dinner  at  the  Bedford,  and  com- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  137 

plimented  Miss  Tox  highly,  beforehand,  on  her  neighbor 
and  acquaintance.  Notwithstanding  the  palpitation  of  the 
heart  which  these  allusions  occasioned  her,  they  were  any 
thing  bat  disagreeable  to  Miss  Tox,  as  they  enabled  her  to 
be  extremely  interesting,  and  to  manifest  an  occasional  inco- 
herence and  distraction  which  she  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to 
display.  The  major  gave  her  abundant  opportunities  of 
exhibiting  this  emotion  :  being  profuse  in  his  complaints,  at 
dinner,  of  her  desertion  of  him  and  Princess's  Place  :  and 
as  he  appeared  to  derive  great  enjoyment  from  making  them, 
they  all  got  on  very  \vell. 

None  the  worse  on  account  of  the  major  taking  charge  of 
the  whole  conversation,  and  showing  as  great  an  appetite  in 
that  respect  as  in  regard  of  the  various  dainties  on  the  table, 
among  which  he  may  be  almost  said  to  have  wallowed  : 
greatly  to  the  aggravation  of  his  inflammatory  tendencies. 
Mr.  Dombey's  habitual  silence  and  reserve  yielding  readily 
to  this  usurpation,  the  major  felt  that  he  was  coming  out 
and  shining  ;  and  in  the  flow  of  spirits  thus  engendered,  rang 
such  an  infinite  number  of  new  changes  on  his  own  name  that 
he  quite  astonished  himself.  In  a  word,  they  were  all  very 
well  pleased.  The  major  was  considered  to  possess  an  inex- 
haustible fund  of  conversation  ;  and  when  he  took  a  late 
farewell,  after  a  long  rubber,  Mr.  Dombey  again  compli- 
mented the  blushing  Miss  Tox  on  her  neighbor  and  acquaint- 
ance. 

But  all  the  way  home  to  his  own  hotel,  the  major  inces- 
santly said  to  himself,  and  of  himself,  "  Sly,  sir — sly,  sir — 
dev-il-ish  sly  !  "  And  when  he  got  there,  sat  down  in  a 
chair,  and  fell  into  a  silent  fit  of  laughter,  with  which  he  was 
sometimes  seized,  and  which  was  always  particularly  awful. 
It  held  him  so  long  on  this  occasion  that  the  dark  servant, 
who  stood  watching  him  at  a  distance,  but  dared  not  for  his 
life  approach,  twice  or  thrice  gave  him  over  for  lost.  His 
whole  form,  but  especially  his  face  and  head,  dilated  beyond 
all  former  experience  ;  and  presented  to  the  dark  man's 
view  nothing  but  a  heavy  mass  of  indigo.  At  length  he  burst 
into  a  violent  paroxysm  of  coughing,  and  when  that  was  a 
little  better  burst  into  such  ejaculations  as  the  following  : 

"  AVould  you,  ma'am,  would  you  ?  Mrs.  Dombey,  eh 
ma'am  ?  I  think  not,  ma'am.  Not  while  Joe  B.  can  put  a 
spoke  in  your  wheel,  ma'am.  J.  B's  even  with  you  now, 
ma'am.     He  isn't  altogether  bowled  out  yet,  sir,  isn't  Bag- 


138  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

stock.  She's  deep,  sir,  deep,  but  Josh  is  deeper.  Wide 
awake  is  old  Joe — broad  awake,  and  staring,  sir!"  There 
was  no  doubt  of  this  last  assertion  being  true,  and  to 
a  very  fearful  extent  ;  as  it  continued  to  be  during  the  greater 
part  of  that  night,  which  the  maj  r  chiefly  passed  in  similar 
exclamations,  diversified  witli  fits  of  coughing  and  choking 
that  startled  the  whol3  Jouse„ 

It  was  on  the  dciy  r.fter  this  occasion  (being  Sunday)  when 
as  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs^  Chick,  and  Miss  Tox  were  sitting  at 
breakfast,  still  eulogizing  the  major,  Florence  came  running 
in  :  her  face  suffused  with  a  bright  color,  and  her  eyes 
sparkling  joyfully  :  and  cried, 

"  Papa  !  Papa  !  Here's  Walter  !  and  he  won't  come 
in." 

"Who?  "cried  Mr.  Dombey.  "What  does  she  mean? 
What  is  this  ?  " 

"  Walter,  papa  !  "  said  Florence,  timidly  ;  sensible  of  hav- 
ing approached  the  presence  with  too  much  familiarity. 
"  Who  found  me  when  I  was  lost." 

"  Does  she  mean  young  Gay,  Louisa  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, knitting  his  brows.  "  Really,  this  child's  manners  have 
become  very  boisterous.  She  can  not  mean  young  Gay,  I 
think.     See  what  it  is,  will  you." 

Mrs.  Chick  hurried  into  the  passage,  and  returned  with  the 
information  that  it  was  young  Gay,  accompanied 'by  a  very 
strange-looking  person  ;  and  that  young  Gay  said  he  would 
not  take  the  liberty  of  coming  in,  hearing  Mr.  Dombey  was 
at  breakfast,  but  would  wait  until  Mr.  Dombey  should  signify 
that  he  might  approach. 

"  Tell  the  boy  to  come  in  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
"  Now,  Gay,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Who  sent  you  down  here  ? 
Was  there  nobody  else  to  come  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  returned  Walter.  "I  have  not 
been  sent.  I  have  been  so  bold  as  to  come  on  my  own 
account,  which  I  hope  you'll  pardon  when  I  mention  the 
cause." 

But  Mr.  Dombey,  without  attending  to  what  he  said,  was 
looking  impatiently  on  either  side  of  him  (as  if  he  were  a 
pillar  in  his  wav)  at  some  object  behind. 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "Who  is  that?  I 
think  you  have  made  some  mistake  in  the  door,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sorry  to  intrude  with  any  one,  sir,"  cried 
Walter,  hastily  :  "  but  this  is — this  is  Captain  Cuttle,  sir." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  139 

"Wal'r,  mv  lad,"  observed  the  captain  in  a  deep  voice  : 
"  stand  by  !  '' 

At  the  same  time  the  captain,  coming  a  little  further  in, 
brought  out  his  wide  suit  of  blue,  his  conspicuous  shirt-collar, 
and  his  knobby  nose  in  full  relief,  and  stood  bowing  to  Mr. 
Dombev,  and  waving  his  hook  politely  to  the  ladies,  with  the 
hard  glazed  hat  in  his  one  hand,  and  a  red  equator  round  his^ 
head  which  it  had  newly  imprinted  there. 

Mr.  Dombey  regarded  this  phenomenon  with  amazement 
and  indignation,  and  seemed  by  his  looks  to  appeal  to  Mrs. 
Chick  and  Miss  Tox  against  it.  Little  Paul,  who  had  come 
in  after  Florence,  backed  toward  Miss  Tox  as  the  captain 
waved  his  hook,  and  stood  on  the  defensive. 

"  Now,  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  What  have  you  got  to 
say  to  me  ?  " 

Again  the  captain  observed,  as  a  general  opening  of  the 
conversation  that  could  not  fail  to  propitiate  all  parties, 
"  Wal'r,  stand  by  !  " 

"  I  am  afraid,  sir,"  began  Walter,  trembling,  and  lookmg 
down  at  the  ground,  "  that  I  take  a  very  great  liberty  in 
coming — indeed,  I  am  sure  I  do.  I  should  hardly  have  had 
the  courage  to  ask  to  see  you,  sir,  even  after  coming  down, 
I  am  afraid,  if  I  had  not  overtaken  Miss  Dombey,  and — " 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  following  his  eyes  as  he 
glanced  •  at  the  attentive  Florence,  and  frowning  uncon- 
sciously as  she  encouraged  him  with  a  smile.  "  Go  on,  if 
vou  please." 

"  Ay,  ay,"  observed  the  captain,  considering  it  incumbent 
on  him,  as  a  point  of  good-breeding,  to  support  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  Well  said  !     Go  on,   Wal'r." 

Captain  Cuttle  ought  to  have  been  withered  by  the  look 
which  Mr.  Dombey  bestowed  upon  him  in  acknowledgment 
of  his  patronage.  But  quite  innocent  of  this,  he  closed  one 
eye  in  reply,  and  gave  Mr.  Dombey  to  understand,  by  certain 
significant' motions  of  his  hook,  that  Walter  was  a  little 
bashful  at  first  ;  and  might  be  expected  to  come  out  shortly. 

"  It  is  entirely  a  private  and  personal  matter  that  has 
brought  me  here,  sir,"  continued  Walter,  faltering,  "  and 
Captain  Cuttle — " 

"  Here  !  "  interposed  the  captain,  as  an  assurance  that  he 
was  at  hand,  and  might  be  relied  upon. 

"  Who  is  a  very  old  friend  of  my  poor  uncle's,  and  a  most 
excellent  man,  sir,"  pursued  Walter,  raising  his  eyes  with  a 


I40  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

look  of  entreaty  in  the  captain's  behalf,  "  was  so  good  as  to 
come  with  me,  which  I  could  hardly  refuse." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  observed  the  captain,  complacently.  "  Of 
course  not.     No  call  for  refusing.     Go  on,  Wal'r." 

"  And  therefore,  sir,"  said  Walter,  venturing  to  meet  Mr. 
Dombey's  eye,  and  proceeding  with  better  courage  in  the 
very  desperation  of  the  case,  now  that  there  was  no  avoiding 
it,  "  therefore  I  have  come,  with  him,  sir,  to  say  that  my 
poor  old  uncle  is  in  very  great  affliction  and  distress.  That, 
through  the  gradual  loss  of  his  business,  and  not  being  able 
to  make  a  payment,  the  apprehension  of  which  has  weighed 
very  heavily  upon  his  mind,  months,  and  months,  as  indeed 
I  know,  sir,  he  has  an  execution  in  his  house,  and  is  in  danger 
of  losing  all  he  has,  and  breaking  his  heart.  And  that  if  you 
would,  in  your  kindness,  and  in  your  old  knowledge  of  him 
as  a  respectable  man,  do  any  thing  to  help  him  out  of  his  dif- 
ficulty, sir,  we  never  could  thank  you  enough  for  it." 

Walter's  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  he  spoke,  and  so  did  those 
of  Florence.  Her  father  saw  them  glistening,  though  he 
appeared  to  look  at  Walter  only. 

"  It  is  a  very  large  sum,  sir,"  said  Walter.  "  More  than 
three  hundred  pounds.  My  uncle  is  quite  beaten  dmvn  by 
his  misfortune,  it  lies  so  heavy  on  him  ;  and  is  quite  unable 
to  do  any  thing  for  his  own  relief.  He  doesn't  even  know 
yet,  that  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you.  You  would  wish  me 
to  say,  sir,"  added  Walter,  after  a  moment's  hesitation, 
"  exactly  what  it  is  I  want.  I  really  don't  know,  sir.  There 
is  my  uncle's  stock,  on  which  I  believe  I  may  say,  confidently, 
there  are  no  other  demands,  and  there  is  Captain  Cuttle,  who 
would  wish  to  be  security  too.  I — I  hardly  like  to  mention," 
said  Walter,  ''  such  earnings  as  mine  ;  but  if  you  would  allow 
them  —  accumulate  —  payment  —  advance  —  uncle  —  frugal, 
honorable,  old  man."  Walter  trailed  off,  through  these 
broken  sentences,  into  silence  ;  and  stood,  with  downcast 
head,  before  his  employer. 

Considering  this  a  favorable  moment  for  the  display  of 
the  valuables.  Captain  Cuttle  advanced  to  the  table  ;  and 
clearing  a  space  among  the  breakfast-cups  at  Mr.  Dombey's 
elbow,  produced  the  silver  watch,  the  ready  money,  the  tea- 
spoons, and  the  sugar-tongs  ;  and  piling  them  up  into  a  heap 
that  they  might  look  as  precious  as  possible,  delivered  him- 
self of  these  words  : 

"  Half  a  loaf's  better  than  no  bread,  and  the  same  remark 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  141 

holds  good  with  crumbs.  There's  a  few.  Annuity  of  one 
hundred  pound  prannum  also  ready  to  be  made  over.  If 
there  is  a  man  chock-full  of  science  in  the  world,  it's  old  Sol 
Gills.  If  there  is  a  lad  of  promise — one  flowing,"  added  the 
captain,  in  one  of  his  happy  quotations,  '"  with  milk  and 
honey — it's  his  nevy  !  " 

The  captain  then  withdrew  to  his  former  place,  where  he 
stood  arranging  his  scattered  locks  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 
had  given  the  finishing  touch  to  a  difficult  performance. 

When  Walter  ceased  to  speak,  Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  were 
attracted  to  little  Paul, who,  seeing  his  sister  hanging  down  her 
head  and  silently  weeping  in  her  commiseration  for  the  dis- 
tress she  had  heard  described,  went  over  to  her,  and  tried  to 
comfort  her  :  looking  at  Walter  and  his  father  as  he  did  so, 
with  a  very  expressive  face.  After  the  momentary  distraction 
of  Captain  Cuttle's  address,  which  he  regarded  with  lofty 
indifference,  Mr.  Dombey  again  turned  his  eyes  upon  his  son, 
and  sat  steadily  regarding  the  child  for  some  minutes,  in 
silence. 

"  What  was  this  debt  contracted  for  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey, 
at  length.     "  Who  is  the  creditor  ?  " 

''  He  don't  know,"  replied  the  captain,  putting  his  hand  on 
Walter's  shoulder.  "  I  do.  It  came  of  helping  a  man  that's 
dead  now,  and  that's  cost  my  friend  Gills  many  a  hundred 
pound  already.     More  particulars  in  private,  if  agreeable." 

"  People  v>'ho  have  enough  to  do  to  hold  their  own  way," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  unobservant  of  the  captain's  mysterious 
signs  behind  Walter,  and  still  looking  at  his  son,  "  had  better 
be  content  with  their  own  obligations  and  difficulties,  and  not 
increase  them  by  engaging  for  other  men.  It  is  an  act  of 
dishonesty  and  presumption,  too,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sternly; 
*'  great  presumption  ;  for  the  wealthy  could  do  no  more. 
Paul  come  here  !  " 

The  child  obeyed  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  him  on  his 
knee. 

^' If  you  had  money  now — "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "Look 
at  me  !  " 

Paul,  whose  eyes  had  wandered  to  his  sister,  and  to  Weaker, 
looked  his  father  in  the  face. 

"  If  you  had  money  now,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  as  much 
money  as  young  Gay  has  talked  about  ;  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  Give  it  to  his  old  uncle,"  returned  Paul. 

"  Lend  it  to  his  old  uncle,  eh  ?  "  retorted    Mr.  Dombey. 


142  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Well  !     When  you  are  old  enough,  you  know,  you  will  share 
my  money,  and  we  shall  use  it  together." 

''  Dombey  and  Son,"  interrupted  Paul,  who  had  been 
tutored  early  in  the  phrase. 

"  Dombey  and  Son,"  repeated  his  father.  "  Would  you 
like  to  begin  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  now,  and  lend  this 
money  to  young  Gay's  uncle  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  if  you  please,  papa  !  "  said  Paul  :  "  and  so  would 
Florence." 

*'  Girls,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  *'  have  nothing  to  do  with  Dom- 
bey and  Son.     Wouldyou  like  it  ?  " 

"Yes,  papa,  yes  !  " 

"  Then  you  shall  do  it,"  returned  his  father.  "  And  you 
see,  Paul,"  he  added,  dropping  his  voice,  *'  how  powerful 
money  is,  and  how  anxious  people  are  to  get  it.  Young  Gay 
comes  all  this  way  to  beg  for  money,  and  you,  who  are  so 
grand  and  great,  having  got  it,  are  going  to  let  him  have  it,  as 
a  great  favor  and  obligation." 

Paul  turned  up  the  old  face  for  a  moment,  in  which  there 
was  a  sharp  understanding  of  the  reference  conveyed  in  these 
words  ;  but  it  was  a  young  and  childish  face  immediately 
afterward,  when  he  slipped  down  from  his  father's  knee, 
and  ran  to  tell  Florence  not  to  cry  any  more,  for  he  was 
going  to  let  young  Gay  have  the  money. 

Mr.  Dombey  then  turned  to  a  side-table,  and  wrote 
a  note  and  sealed  it.  During  the  interval,  Paul  and  Florence 
whispered  to  Walter,  and  Captain  Cuttle  beamed  on  the 
three,  with  such  aspiring  and  ineffably  presumptuous  thoughts 
as  Mr.  Dombey  never  could  have  believed  in.  The  note 
being  finished,  Mr.  Dombey  turned  round  to  his  former 
place,  and  held  it  out  to  Walter. 

''  Give  that,"  he  said,  ''  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning, 
to  Mr.  Carker.  He  will  immediately  take  care  that  one  of 
my  people  releases  your  uncle  from  his  present  position,  by 
paying  the  amount  at  issue  ;  and  that  such  arrangements  are 
made  for  its  repayment  as  may  be  consistent  with  your  uncle's 
cixcumstances.  You  will  consider  that  this  is  done  for  you 
by  Master  Paul." 

Walter,  in  the  emotion  of  holding  in  his  hand  the  means 
of  releasing  his  good  uncle  from  his  trouble,  would  have 
endeavored  to  express  something  of  his  gratitude  and  joy. 
But  Mr.  Dombey  stopped  him  short. 

"You  will  consider  that  it  is  done,"  he  repeated,  "by  Mas- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  143 

ter  Paul.  I  have  explained  that  to  him,  and  he  understands 
it.     I  wish  no  more  to  be  said." 

As  he  motioned  toward  the  door,  Walter  could  only  bow 
his  head  and  retire.  Miss  Tox,  seeing  that  the  captain 
appeared  about  to  do  the  same,  interposed. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Dombey,  at 
whose  munificence  both  she  and  Mrs.  Chick  were  shedding 
tears  copiously  ;  "  I  think  you  have  overlooked  something. 
Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  think,  in  the  nobility  of  your 
character,  and  its  exalted  scope,  you  have  omitted  a  matter 
of  detail." 

"  Indeed,  Miss  Tox  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  The  gentleman  with  the instrument,"  pursued  Miss 

Tox,  glancing  at  Captain  Cuttle,  "  has  left  upon  the  table,  at 
^our  elbow — " 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  sweeping  the  cap- 
tain's property  from  him,  as  if  it  were  so  much  crumb  indeed. 
*'  Take  these  things  away.  I  am  obliged  to  you.  Miss  Tox  ; 
it  is  like  your  usual  discretion.  Have  the  goodness  to  take 
these  things  away,  sir  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle  felt  he  had  no  alternative  but  to  com- 
ply. But  he  was  so  much  struck  by  the  magnanimity  of  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  refusing  treasures  lying  heaped  up  to  his  hand, 
that  when  he  had  deposited  the  tea-spoons  and  sugar-tongs 
in  one  pocket,  and  the  ready  money  in  another,  and  had 
lowered  the  great  watch  down  slowly  into  its  proper  vault, 
he  could  not  refrain  from  seizing  that  gentleman's  right  hand 
in  his  own  solitary  left,  and  while  he  held  it  open  with  his 
powerful  fingers,  bringing  the  hook  down  upon  its  palm  in  a 
transport  of  admiration.  At  this  touch  of  warm  feeling  and 
cold  iron,  Mr.  Dombey  shivered  all  over. 

Captain  Cuttle  then  kissed  his  hook  to  the  ladies  several 
times,  with  great  elegance  and  gallantry  ;  and  having  taken 
a  particular  leave  of  Paul  and  Florence,  accompanied  Wal- 
ter out  of  the  room.  Florence  was  running  after  them  in 
the  earnestness  of  her  heart,  to  send  some  message  to  old 
Sol,  when  Mr.  Dombey  called  her  back,  and  bade  her  stay 
where  she  was. 

"Will  you  never  h%  a  Dombey,  my  dear  child!"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  pathetic  reproachfulness. 

"Dear  aunt,"  said  Florence.  "Don't  be  angry  with  me. 
I  am  so  thankful  to  papa  !  " 

She  would  have  run  and  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck 


144  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

if  she  had  dared  ;  but  as  she  did  not  dare,  she  glanced  with 
thankful  eyes  toward  him,  as  he  sat  musing  ;  sometimes 
bestowing  an  uneasy  glance  on  her,  but,  for  the  most  part, 
watching  Paul,  who  walked  about  the  room  with  the 
new-blown  dignity  of  having  let  young  Gay  have  the 
money. 

And  young  Gay — Walter — what  of  him  ? 

He  was  overjoyed  to  purge  the  old  man's  hearth  from 
bailiffs  and  brokers,  and  to  hurry  back  to  his  uncle  with  the 
good  tidings.  He  was  overjoyed  to  have  it  all  arranged  and 
settled  next  day  before  noon  ;  and  to  sit  down  at  evening  in 
the  little  back  parlor  with  old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and 
to  see  the  instrument-maker  already  revivi-ng,  and  hopeful 
for  the  future,  and  feeling  that  the  wooden  midshipman  was 
his  own  again.  But  without  the  least  impeachment  of  his 
gratitude  to  Mr.  Dombey,  it  must  be  confessed  that  Walter 
was  humbled  and  cast  down.  It  is  when  our  budding  hopes 
are  nipped  beyond  recovery  by  some  rough  wind,  that  we  are 
the  most  disposed  to  picture  to  ourselves  what  flowers  they 
might  have  borne  if  they  had  flourished  ;  and  now,  when 
Walter  felt  himself  cut  off  from  that  great  Dombey  height, 
by  the  depth  of  a  new  and  terrible  tumble,  and  felt  that  all 
his  old  wild  fancies  had  been  scattered  to  the  winds  in  the 
fall,  he  began  to  suspect  that  they  might  have  led  him  on  to 
harmless  visions  of  aspiring  to  Florence  in  the  remote  dis- 
tance of  time. 

The  captain  viewed  the  subject  in  quite  a  different  light. 
He  appeared  to  entertain  a  belief  that  the  interview  at  which 
he  had  assisted  was  so  very  satisfactory  and  encouraging,  as 
to  be  only  a  step  or  two  removed  from  a  regular  betrothal  of 
Florence  to  Walter  ;  and  that  the  late  transaction  had 
immensely  forwarded,  if  not  thoroughly  established,  the 
Whittingtonian  hopes.  Stimulated  by  this  conviction,  and 
by  the  improvement  in  the  spirits  of  his  old  friend,  and  by 
his  own  subsequent  gayety,  he  even  attempted,  in  favoring 
them  with  the  ballad  of  "  Lovely  Peg  "  for  the  third  time 
in  one  evening,  to  make  an  extemporaneous  substitution  of 
the  name  "  Florence  ;  "  but  finding  this  difficult,  on  account 
of  the  word  Peg  invariably  rhyming  to  leg  (in  which  per- 
sonal beauty  the  original  was  described  as  having  excelled 
all  competitors),  he  hit  upon  the  happy  thought  of  changing  it 
to  Fl — e— eg  ;  which  he  accordingly  did,  with  an  archness 
almost  supernatural,  and  a  voice  quite  vociferous,  notwith- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  145 

standing  thai  the  time  was  close  at  hand  when  he  must  seek 
the  abode  of  the  dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger. 


CHAPTER  XL 

*«^ul's  introduction  to    a  new  scene. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  constitution  was  made  of  such  hard  metal, 
in  spite  of  its  liability  to  the  fleshly  weaknesses  of  standing  in 
need  of  repose  after  chops,  and  of  requiring  to  be  coaxed  to 
sleep  by  the  soporific  agency  of  sweet-breads,  that  it  utterly 
set  at  naught  the  predictions  of  Mrs.  Wickam,  and  showed  no 
symptoms  of  decline.  Yet,  as  Paul's  rapt  interest  in  the  old 
lady  continued  unabated,  Mrs.  Wickam  woul4  not  budge  an 
inch  from  the  position  she  had  taken  up.  Fortifying  and 
intrenching  herself  on  the  strong  ground  of  her  uncle's  Bet- 
sey Jane,  she  advised  Miss  Berry,  as  a  friend,  to  prepare 
herself  for  the  worst  ;  and  forewarned  her  that  her  aunt 
might  at  any  time  be  expected  to  go  oft  suddenly,  like  a 
powder-mill. 

Poor  Berry  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  drudged  and 
slaved  away  as  usual ;  perfectly  convinced  that  Mrs.  Pipchin 
was  one  of  the  most  meritorious  persons  in  the  world,  and  mak- 
ing every  day  innumerable  sacrifices  of  herself  upon  the  altar 
of  that  noble  old  woman.  But  all  these  immolations  of 
Berry  were  somehow  carried  to  the  credit  of  Mrs.  Pipchin 
by  Mrs.  Pipchin's  friends  and  admirers  ;  and  were  made  to 
harmonize  with,  and  carry  out,  that  melancholy  fact  of  the 
deceased  Mr.  Pipchin  having  broken  his  heart  in  the  Peru- 
vian mines. 

For  example  there  was  an  honest  grocer  and  general  dealer 
in  the  retail  line  of  business,  betw^een  whom  and  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin there  was  a  small  memorandum-book,  with  a  greasy  red 
cover,  perpetually  in  question,  and  concerning  which  divers 
secret  councils  and  conferences  were  continually  being  held 
between  the  parties  to  the  register,  on  the  mat  in  the  passage, 
and  with  closed  doors  in  the  parlor.  Nor  were  there  want- 
ing dark  hints  from  Master  Bitherstone  (wRose  temper  had 
been  made  revengeful  by  the  solar  heats  of  India  acting  on 
his  blood)  of  balances  unsettled,  and  of  a  failure,  on  one 
occasion  within  his  memory,  in  the  supply  of  moist  sugar  at 
tea-time.  ^  This  grocer  being  a  bachelor,  and  not  a  man  who 


I4G  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

looked  upon  the  surface  for  beauty,  had  once  made  honor- 
able offers  for  the  hand  of  Berry,  which  Mrs.  Pipchin  had, 
with  contumely  and  scorn,  rejected.  Every  body  said  how 
laudable  this  was  in  Mrs.  Pipchin,  relict  of  a  man  who  had 
died  of  the  Peruvian  mines  ;  and  what  a  staunch,  high,  inde- 
pendent spirit  the  old  lady  had.  But  nobody  said  any  thing 
about  poor  Berry,  who  cried  for  six  weeks  (being  soundly 
rated  by  her  good  aunt  all  the  time),  and  lapsed  into  a  state 
of  hopeless  spinsterhood. 

'^  Berry's  very  fond  of  you,  ain't  she  ?  "  Paul  once  asked 
Mrs.  Pipchin  when  they  were  sitting  by  the  fire  with  the  cat. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Paul. 

"  Why  ?  "  returned  the  disconcerted  old  lady.  "  How  can 
you  ask  such  things,  sir  ?  why  are  you  fond  of  your  sister 
Florence  ?  " 

"  Because  she's  very  good,"  said  Pa-ul.  "  There's  nobody 
like  Florence." 

"  Well !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shortly,  "  and  there's 
nobody  like  me,  I  suppose." 

"Ain't  there  really  though  ?  "  asked  Paul,  leaning  forward 
in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  very  hard. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  observed  Paul,  rubbing  his  hands 
thoughtfully.     "  That's  a  very  good  thing." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  didn't  dare  to  ask  him  why,  lest  she  should 
receive  some  perfectly  annihilating  answer.  But  as  a  com- 
pensation to  her  wounded  feelings,  she  harassed  Master 
Bitherstone  to  that  extent  until  bed-time,  that  he  began  that 
very  night  to  make  arrangements  for  an  overland  return  to 
India,  by  secreting  from  his  supper  a  quarter  of  a  round  of 
bread  and  a  fragment  of  moist  Dutch  cheese,  as  the  begin- 
ning of  a  stock  of  provision  to  support  him  on  the  voyage. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  had  kept  watch  and  ward  over  little  Paul  and 
his  sister  for  nearly  twelve  months.  They  had  been  home 
twice,  but  only  for  a  few  days  ;  and  had  been  constant  in 
their  weekly  visits  to  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  hotel.  By  little 
and  little  Paul  had  grown  stronger,  and  had  become  able  to 
dispense  with  his  carriage  :  though  he  still  looked  thin  and 
delicate  ;  and  still  remained  the  same  old,  quiet,  dreamy 
child  that  he  had  been  when  first  consigned  to  ]\Trs.  Pipchin's 
care.  One  Saturday  afternoon  at  dusk,  great  consternation 
was  occasioned  in  the  castle  bv  the  unlooked-for  announcer 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  147 

ment  of  Mr.  Dombey  as  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Pipchin.  The  pop- 
ulation of  the  parlor  was  immediately  swept  up  stairs  as  on 
the  wings  of  a  whirlwind,  and  after  much  slamming  of  bed- 
room doors,  and  trampling  overhead,  and  some  knocking 
about  of  Master  Bitherstone  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  as  a  relief  to 
the  perturbation  of  her  spirits,  the  black  bombazine  gar- 
ments of  the  worthy  old  lady  darkened  the  audience-cham- 
ber where  Mr.  Dombey  was  contemplating  the  vacant  arm- 
chair of  his  son  and  heir. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  am  pretty  well, 
considering." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  always  used  that  form  of  words.  It  meant 
considering  her  virtues,  sacrifices,  and  so  forth. 

"  I  can't  expect,  sir,  to  be  very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
taking  a  chair,  and  fetching  her  breath  ;  "  but  such  health 
as  I  have,  I  am  grateful  for." 

Mr.  Dombey  inclined  his  head  with  the  satisfied  air  of  a 
patron,  who  felt  that  this  was  the  sort  of  thing  for  which  he 
paid  so  much  a  quarter.  After  a  moment's  silence  he  went  on 
to  say  : 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling,  to  con- 
sult you  in  reference  to  my  son.  I  have  had  it  in  my  mind  to 
do  so  for  some  time  past  ;  but  have  deferred  it  from  time  to 
time,  in  order  that  his  health  might  be  thoroughly  re-estab- 
lished. You  have  no  misgivings  on  that  subject,  Mrs  Pip- 
chin ? " 

"  Brighton  has  proved  very  beneficial,  sir,"  returned  Mrs. 
Pipchin.     "  Very  beneficial,  indeed." 

"  I  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  his  remaining  at  Brigh- 
ton." 

Mrs.  Pipchin  rubbed  her  hands,  and  bent  her  gray  eyes  on 
the  fire. 

"  But,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  stretching  out  his  forefinger, 
"  but  possibly  that  he  should  now  make  a  change,  and  lead  a 
different  kind  of  life  here.  In  short,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  is 
the  object  of  my  visit.  My  son  is  getting  on,  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
Really  he  is  getting  on." 

There  was  something  melancholy  in  the  triumphant  air 
with  which  Mr.  Dombey  said  this.  It  showed  how  long 
Paul's  childish  life  had  been  to  him  and  how  his  hopes  were 
set  upon  a  later  stage  of  his  existence.  Pity  may  appear  a 
strange  word  to  connect  with  any  one   so   haughty  and  so 


145  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

cold,  and  yet  he  seemed  a  worthy  subject  for  it  at  that 
moment. 

"  Six  years  old  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  settling  his  neckcloth 
— perhaps  to  hide  an  irrepressible  smile  that  rather  seemed  to 
strike  upon  the  surface  of  his  face  and  glance  away,  as  find- 
ing no  resting-place,  than  to  play  there  for  an  instant.  ^'  Dear 
me,  six  will  be  changed  to  sixteen,  before  we  have  time  to 
look  about  us." 

''  Ten  years,"  croaked  the  unsympathetic  Pipchin,  with  a 
frost}^  glistening  in  her  hard  gray  eye,  and  a  dreary  shaking 
of  her  bent  head,  "  is  a  long  time." 

''It  depends  on  circumstances,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
•'  at  all  events,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  my  son  is  six  years  old,  and 
there  is  no  doubt,  I  fear,  that  in  his  studies  he  is  behind 
many  children  of  his  age — or  his  youth,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
quickly  answering  what  he  mistrusted  was  a  shrewd  twinkle 
of  the  frosty  eye,  "  his  youth  is  a  more  appropriate  expres- 
sion. Now,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  instead  of  being  behind  his  peers, 
my  son  ought  to  be  before  them.  There  is  an  eminence 
ready  for  him  to  mount  upon.  There  is  nothing  of  chance 
or  doubt  in  the  course  before  my  son.  His  way  in  life  was 
clear,  and  prepared,  and  marked  out  before  he  existed.  The 
education  of  such  a  young  gentleman  must  not  be  delayed. 
It  must  not  be  left  imperfect.  It  must  be  very  steadily  and 
seriously  undertaken,  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  I  can  say  nothing  to  the 
contrary." 

''I  was  quite  sure,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey, 
approvingly,  ''  that  a  person  of  your  good  sense  could  not 
and  would  not." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  of  nonsense — and  worse — talked 
about  young  people  not  being  pressed  too  hard  at  first,  and 
being  tempted  on,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin, impatiently  rubbing  her  hooked  nose.  "  It  never  was 
thought  of  in  my  time,  and  it  has  no  business  to  be  thought 
of  now.     My  opinion  is,  *  keep  'em  at  it.'  " 

'*  My  good  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  you  have 
not  acquired  your  reputation  undeservedly  ;  and  I  beg  you 
to  believe,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  I  am  more  than  satisfied  with 
your  excellent  system  of  management,  and  shall  have  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  commending  it  whenever  my  poor  com- 
mendation"— Mr.  Dombey's  loftiness  when  he  affected  to 
disparage  his  importance,  passed  all  bounds — "  can  be  of  any 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  149 

service.  I  have  been  thinking  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  Mrs. 
Pipchin." 

''  My  neighbor,  sir  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  I  believe  the 
doctor's  is  an  excellent  establishment.  Pve  heard  that  it's 
very  strictly  conducted,  and  there  is  nothing  but  learning 
going  on  from  morning  to  night." 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,"  added  Mr,  Dombey. 

"  And  it's  very  expensive,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
catching  at  the  fact  as  if,  in  omitting  that,  she  had  omitted 
one  of  its  leading  merits. 

''  I  have  had  some  communication  with  the  doctor,  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  said  Mr.  Dombey,  hitching  his  chair  anxiously  a  lit- 
tle nearer  to  the  fire,  "  and  he  does  not  consider  Paul  at  all 
too  young  for  his  purpose.  He  mentioned  several  instances 
of  boys  in  Greek  at  about  the  same  age.  If  I  have  any  little 
uneasiness  in  my  own  mind,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  on  the  subject  of 
this  change,  it  is  not  on  that  head.  My  son  not  having 
known  a  mother  has  gradually  concentrated  much — too  much 
— of  his  childish  affection  on  his  sister.  Whether  their  sep- 
aration— "     Mr.  Dombey  said  no  more,  but  sat  silent. 

"  Hoity-toity  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  out  her 
black  bombazine  skirts,  and  plucking  up  all  the  ogress 
within  her.  "  If  she  don't  like  it,  Mr.  Dombey,  she  must  be 
taught  to  lump  it."  The  good  lady  apologized  immediately 
afterward  for  using  so  common  a  figure  of  speech,  but  said 
(and  truly)  that  that  was  the  way  s/ie  reasoned  with  'em. 

Mr.  Dombey  waited  until  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  done  bridling 
and  shaking  her  head,  and  frowning  down  a  legion  of  Bither- 
stones  and  Pankeys  ;  and  then  said  quietly  but  correctively, 
"  He,  my  good  madam,  he." 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  system  would  have  applied  very  much  the 
same  mode  of  cure  to  any  uneasiness  on  the  part  of  Paul,  too  ; 
but  as  the  hard  gray  eye  was  sharp  enough  to  see  that  the 
recipe,  however  Mr.  Dombey  might  admit  its  efficacy  in  the 
case  of  the  daughter,  was  not  a  sovereign  remedy  for  the  son, 
she  argued  the  point ;  and  contended  that  change,  and  new 
society,  and  the  different  form  of  life  he  would  lead  at  Dr. 
Blimber's,  and  the  studies  he  would  have  to  master 
would  very  soon  prove  sufficient  alienations.  As  this 
chimed  in  with  Mr.  Dombey's  own  hope  and  belief, 
it  gave  that  gentleman  a  still  higher  opinion  of  ]\Irs.  Pip- 
chin's  understanding  :  and  as  Mrs.  Pipchin,  at  the  same 
time,  bewailed  the  loss  of  her  dear  little  friend  (which  was 


I50  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

not  an  overwhelming  shock  to  her,  as  she  had  long  expected 
it,  and  had  not  looked,  in  the  beginning,  for  his  remaining 
with  her  longer  than  three  months),  he  formed  an  equally- 
good  opinion  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's  disinterestedness.  It  was 
plain  that  he  had  given  the  subject  anxious  consideration, 
for  he  had  formed  a  plan,  which  he  announced  to  the  ogress, 
of  sending  Paul  to  the  doctor's  as  a  weekly  boarder  for  the 
first  half-year,  during  which  time  Florence  would  remain  at 
the  castle,  and  she  might  receive  her  brother  there,  on  Sat- 
urdays. This  would  wean  him  by  degrees,  Mr.  Dombey 
said  ;  probably  with  a  recollection  of  his  not  having  been 
weaned  by  degrees  on  a  former  occasion. 

Mr.  Dombey  finished  the  interview  by  expressing  his  hope 
that  Mrs.  Pipchin  would  still  remain  in  office  as  general 
superintendent  and  overseer  of  his  son,  pending  his  studies  at 
Brighton  ;  and  having  kissed  Paul,  and  shaken  hands  with 
Florence,  and  beheld  Master  Bitherstone  in  his  collar  of 
state,  and  made  Miss  Pankey  cry  by  patting  her  on  the  head 
(in  which  region  she  was  uncommonly  tender,  on  account  of 
a  habit  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  of  sounding  it  with  her  knuckles, 
like  a  cask),  he  withdrew  to  his  hotel  and  dinner  :  resolved 
that  Paul,  now  that  he  was  getting  so  old  and  well,  should 
begin  a  vigorous  course  of  education  forthwith,  to  qualify 
him  for  the  position  in  which  he  was  to  shine  ;  and  that 
Doctor  Blimber  should  take  him  in  hand  immediately. 

Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  taken  in  hand  by  Doc- 
tor Blimber,  he  might  consider  himself  sure  of  a  pretty  tight 
squeeze.  The  doctor  only  undertook  the  charge  of  ten  young 
gentlemen,  but  he  had,  always  ready,  a  supply  of  learning  for  a 
hundred,  on  the  lowest  estimate  ;  it  was  at  once  the  busines's 
and  delight  of  his  life  to  gorge  the  unhappy  ten  wdth  it. 

In  fact.  Doctor  Blimber's  establishment  was  a  great  hot- 
house, in  which  there  was  a  forcing  apparatus  incessantly  at 
work.  All  the  boys  blew  before  their  time.  Mental  green 
peas  were  produced  at  Christmas,  and  intellectual  asparagus 
all  the  year  round.  Mathematical  gooseberries  (very  sour 
ones  too)  were  common  at  untimely  seasons,  and  from  mere 
sprouts  of  bushes,  under  Doctor  Blimber's  cultivation.  Every 
description  of  Greek  and  Latin  vegetable  was  got  off  the 
dryest  twigs  of  boys,  under  the  frostiest  circumstances. 
Nature  was  of  no  consequence  at  all.  No  matter  what  a 
young  gentleman  was  intended  to  bear.  Doctor  Blimber 
made  him  bear  to  pattern,  somehow  or  other . 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  151 

This  was  all  very  pleasant  and  ingenious,  but  the  system  of 
forcing  was  attended  with  its  usual  disadvantages.  There 
was  not  the  right  taste  about  the  premature  productions,  and 
they  didn't  keep  well.  Moreover,  one  young  gentleman, 
with  a  swollen  nose  and  an  excessively  large  head  (the  oldest 
of  the  ten  who  had  "  gone  through  "  every  thing),  suddenly 
left  off  blowing  one  day,  and  remained  in  the  establishment 
a  mere  stalk.  And  people  did  say  that  the  doctor  had 
rather  overdone  it  with  young  Toots,  and  that  when  he 
began  to  have  whiskers  he  left  off  having  brains. 

There  young  Toots  was,  at  any  rate  ,  possessed  of  the  gruff- 
est of  voices  and  the  shrillest  of  minds  ;  sticking  ornamental 
pins  into  his  shirt,  and  keeping  a  ring  in  his  waistcoat  pocket 
to  put  on  his  little  finger  by  stealth,  when  the  pupils  went  out 
walking  ;  constantly  falling  in  love  by  sight  with  nursery- 
maids, who  had  no  idea  of  his  existence  ;  and  looking  at  the 
gas-lighted  world  over  the  little  iron  bars  in  the  left-hand  cor- 
ner window  of  the  front  three  pairs  of  stairs,  after  bed-time, 
like  a  greatly  overgrown  cherub  who  had  sat  up  aloft  much 
too  long. 

The  doctor  Avas  a  portly  gentleman  in  a  suit  of  black,  with 
strings  at  his  knees,  and  stockings  below  them.  He  had  a 
bald  head,  highly  polished  ;  a  deep  voice  ;  and  a  chin  so 
very  double,  that  it  was  a  wonder  how  he  ever  managed  to 
shave  into  the  creases.  He  had  likewise  a  pair  of  little  eyes 
that  were  always  half  shut  up,  and  a  mouth  that  was  always 
half -expanded  into  a  grin,  as  if  he  had,  that  moment,  posed  a 
boy,  and  were  waiting  to  convict  him  from  his  own  lips.  Inso- 
much that  when  the  doctor  put  his  right  hand  into  the  breast 
of  his  coat,  and  with  his  other  hand  behind  him,  and  a  scarcely 
perceptible  wag  of  his  head,  made  the  commonest  observa- 
tion to  a  nervous  stranger,  it  was  like  a  sentiment  from  the 
sphinx,  and  settled  his  business. 

The  doctor's  was  a  mighty  fine  house,  fronting  the  sea. 
Not  a  joyful  style  of  house  within,  but  quite  the  contrary. 
Sad-colored  curtains,  whose  proportions  were  spare  and  lean, 
hid  themselves  despondently  behind  the  windows.  The 
tables  and  chairs  were  put  away  in  rows,  like  figures  in  a  sum : 
fires  were  so  rarely  lighted  in  the  rooms  of  ceremony,  that 
they  felt  like  wells,  and  a  visitor  represented  the  bucket  ;  the 
dining-room  seemed  the  last  place  in  the  world  where  any 
eating  or  drinking  was  likely  to  occur  ;  there  was  no  sound 
through  all  the  house  but  the  ticking  of  a  great  clock  in  the 


152  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

hall,  which  made  itself  audible  in  the  very  garrets:  and  some- 
times a  dull  crying  of  young  gentlemen  at  their  lessons,  like 
the  murmurings  of  an  assemblage  of  melancholy  pigeons. 

Miss  Blimber,  too,  although  a  slim  and  graceful  maid,  did 
no  soft  violence  to  the  gravity  of  the  house.  There  was  no 
light  nonsense  about  Miss  Blimber.  She  kept  her  hair  short 
and  crisp,  and  wore  spectacles.  She  was  dry  and  sandy  with 
working  in  the  graves  of  deceased  languages.  None  of  your 
live  languages  for  Miss  Blimber.  They  must  be  dead — 
stone  dead — and  then  Miss  Blimber  dug  them  up  like  a 
ghoul. 

Mrs.  Blimber,  her  mamma,  was  not  learned  herself,  but 
she  pretended  to  be,  and  that  did  quite  as  well.  She  said  at 
evening  parties,  that  if  she  could  have  known  Cicero,  she 
thought  she  could  have  died  contented.  It  was  the  steady 
joy  of  her  life  to  see  the  doctor's  young  gentlemen  go  out 
walking,  unlike  all  other  young  gentlemen,  in  the  largest  pos- 
sible shirt-collars,  and  the  stiffest  possible  cravats.  It  was  so 
classical,  she  said. 

As  to  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  Dr.  Blimber's  assistant,  he  was  a 
kind  of  human  barrel-organ,  with  a  little  list  of  tunes  at  which 
he  was  continually  working,  over  and  over  again,  without  any 
variation.  He  might  have  been  fitted  up  with  a  change  of 
barrels,  perhaps,  in  early  life,  if  his  destiny  had  been  favor- 
able ;  but  it  had  not  been  ;  and  he  had  only  one,  with  which, 
in  a  monotonous  round,  it  was  his  occupation  to  bewilder 
the  young  ideas  of  Dr.  Blimber's  young  gentlemen.  The 
young  gentlemen  were  prematurely  full  of  carking  anxieties. 
They  knew  no  rest  fro'm  the  pursuit  of  stony-hearted  verbs, 
savage  noun-substantives,  inflexible  syntactic  passages,  and 
ghosts  of  exercises  that  appeared  to  them  in  their  dreams. 
Under  the  forcing  system,  a  young  gentleman  usually  took 
leave  of  his  spirits  in  three  weeks.  He  had  all  the  care  of  the 
world  on  his  head  in  three  months.  He  conceived  bitter  sen- 
timents against  his  parents  or  guardians  in  four  ;  he  was  an 
old  misanthrope  in  five  ;  envied  Curtius  that  blessed  refuge 
in  the  earth  in  six  ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  first  twelvemonth 
had  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  from  which  he  never  afterward 
departed,  that  all  the  fancies  of  the  poets,  and  lessons  of  the 
sages,  were  a  mere  collection  of  words  and  grammar,  and 
had  no  other  meaning  in  the  world. 

But  he  went  on  blow,  blow,  blowing,  in  the  doctor's  hot- 
house, all  the  time  ;   and  the  doctor's  glory  and  reputation 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  153 

were  great,  when  he  took   his  wintry  growth  home  to  his  re- 
lations and  friends. 

Upon  the  doctor's  door-steps  one  day,  Paul  stood  with  a 
fluttering  heart,  and  with  his  small  right  hand  in  his  father's. 
His  other  hand  was  locked  in  that  of  Florence.  How  tight 
the  tiny  pressure  of  that  one  ;  and  how  loose  and  cool  the 
other  ! 

Mrs.  Pipchin  hovered  behind  the  victim,  with  her  sable 
plumage  and  her  hooked  beak,  like  a  bird  of  ill-omen.  She 
was  out  of  breath — for  Mr.  Dombey,  full  of  great  thoughts, 
had  walked  fast — and  she  croaked  hoarsely  as  she  waited  for 
the  opening  of  the  door. 

"  Now,  Paul,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  exultingly.  "  This  is  the 
wav  indeed  to  be  Dombey  and  Son,  and  have  money.  You 
are  almost  a  man  already." 

'^Almost,"  returned  the  child. 

Even  his  childish  agitation  could  not  master  the  sly  and 
quaint  yet  touching  look  with  which  he  accompanied  the 
reply. 

It  brought  a  vague  expression  of  dissatisfaction  into  Mr. 
Dombey's  face  ;  but  the  door  being  opened,  it  was  quickly 
gone. 

"  Doctor  Blimber  is  at  home,  I  believe  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

The  man  said  yes  ;  and  as  they  passed  in,  looked  at  Paul 
as  if  he  were  a  little  mouse,  and  the  house  were  a  trap.  He  was 
a  weak-eyed  young  man,  with  the  first  faint  streaks  or  early 
dawn  of  a  grin  on  his  countenance.  It  was  mere  imbecility  ; 
but  Mrs.  Pipchin  took  it  into  her  head  that  it  was  impudence, 
and  made  a  snap  at  him  directly. 

"  How  dare  you  laugh  behind  the  gentleman's  back  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin.      ''And  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-laughing  at  nobody,  and  I'm  sure  I  don't  take 
you  for  nothing,  ma'am,"  returned  the  young  man,  in  con- 
sternation. 

"  A  pack  of  idle  dogs  !  "  said  ^Irs.  Pipchin,  "  only  fit  to  be 
turnspits.  Go  and  tell  your  master  that  ]Mr.  Dombey's  here, 
or  it'll  be  worse  for  you  !  " 

The  weak-eyed  young  man  went,  very  meekly,  to  discharge 
himself  of  this  commission  ;  and  soon  came  back  to  invite 
them  to  the  doctor's  study. 

"  You're  laughing  again,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  when  it 
came  to  her  turn,  bringing  up  the  rear,  to  pass  him  in  the  halL 


154  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

''I  ^/;;V,"  returned  the  young  man,  grievously  oppressed 
"  I  never  see  such  a  thing  as  this  !  " 

*'  What  is  the  matter,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
looking  round.     "  Softly  !     Pray  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  defense,  merely  muttered  at  thFyoung 
man  as  she  passed  on,  and  said,  "  Oh  !  he  was  a  precious 
fellow  " — leaving  the  young  man,  who  was  all  meekness  and 
incapacity,  affected  even  to  tears  by  the  incident.  But  Mrs. 
Pipchin  had  a  way  of  falling  foul  of  all  meek  people  ;  and  her 
friends  said  who  could  wonder  at  it,  after  the  Peruvian  mines  ! 
The  doctor  was  sitting  in  his  portentous  study,  with  a  globe 
at  each  knee,  books  all  round  him,  Homer  over  the  door,  and 
Minerva  on  the  mantleshelf.  ^'  And  how  do  you,  sir  ?  "  he 
said  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  and  how  is  my  little  friend  ?  " 
Grave  as  an  organ  was  the  doctor's  speech  ;  and  when  he 
ceased,  the  great  clock  in  the  hall  seemed  (to  Paul  at  least)  to 
take  him  up,  and  to  go  on  saying,  ''  How,  is,  my,  lit,  tie, 
friend  ?  how,  is,  my,  lit, tie,  friend  ?  "  over  and  over  and  over 
again. 

The  little  friend  being  something  too  small  to  be  seen  at  all 
from  where  the  doctor  sat,  over  the  books  on  his  table,  the 
doctor  made  several  futile  attempts  to  get  a  view  of  him 
round  the  legs  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey  perceiving,  relieved  the 
doctor  from  his  embarrassment  by  taking  Paul  up  in  his 
arms,  and  setting  him  on  another  little  table,  over  against 
the  doctor,  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Ha  !"  said  the  doctor,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with 
his  hand  in  his  breast.  "  Now  I  see  my  little  friend.  How 
do  you  do,  my  little  friend  ?  " 

The  clock  in  the  hall  wouldn't  subscribe  to  this  altera- 
tion in  the  form  of  words,  but  continued  to  repeat,  ''How, 
is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ?    how,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ?  " 

"  Very  well  I  thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Paul,  answering 
the  clock  quite  as  much  as  the  doctor. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  Shall  we  make  a  man  of 
him  ?  " 

"  Do  you  hear,  Paul  ?"  added  Mr.  Dombey  ;  Paul  being 
silent. 

"  Shall  we  make  a  man  of  him  ?  "  repeated  the  doctor. 

"  I  had  rather  be  a  child,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Indeed  !"  said  the  doctor.     "  Why  ?" 

The  child  sat  on  the  table  looking  at  him,  with  a  curious 
expression  of  suppressed  emotion  in  his  face,  and  beating  one 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  155 

hand  proudly  on  his  knee  as  if  he  had  the  rising  tears  be- 
neath it,  and  crushed  them.  But  his  other  hand  strayed  a 
little  way  the  while,  a  little  furthur — further  from  him  yet — 
until  it  lighted  on  the  neck  of  Florence.  "  This  is  why,"  it 
seemed  to  sav,  and  then  the  steady  look  was  broken  up  and 
gone  ;  the  working  lip  loosened  ;  and  the  tears  came  stream- 
ing forth. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  his  father,  in  a  querulous  manner, 
"I  am  really  very  sorry  to  see  this." 

"  Come  kway  from  him,  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  quoth  the 
matron. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  doctor,  blandly,  nodding  his  head 
to  keep  Mrs.  Pipchin  back.  "  Nev-er  mind  ;  we  shall  sub- 
stitute new  cares  and  new  impressions,  Mr.  Dombey,  very 
shortly.     You  would  still  wish  my  little  friend  to  acquire — '' 

"  Everything,  if  youplease,  doctor,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey 
firmly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor  ;  who,  with  his  half-shut  eyes,  and 
his  usual  smile,  seemed  to  survey  Paul  with  the  sort  of  inter- 
est that  might  attach  to  some  choice  little  animal  he  was 
going  to  stuff.  "  Yes,  exactly.  Ha  !  We  shall  impart  a 
great  variety  of  information  to  our  little  friend,  and  bring 
him  quickly  forward,  I  dare  say.  I  dare  say.  Quite  a  vir- 
gin soil,  I  believe  you  said,  Mr.  Dombey  ? " 

*'  Except  some  ordinary  preparation  at  home,  and  from  this 
lady,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  introducing  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who 
instantly  communicated  a  rigidity  to  her  whole  muscular  sys- 
tem, and  snorted  defiance  beforehand,  in  case  the  doctor 
should  disparage  her  ;  "  except  so  far,  Paul  has,  as  yet,  ap- 
plied himself  to  no  studies  at  all." 

Dr.  Blimber  inclined  his  head,  in  gentle  tolerance  of  such 
insignificant  poaching  as  Mrs.  Pipchin's,  and  said  he  was  glad 
to  hear  it.  It  was  much  more  satisfactory,  he  observed,  rub- 
bing his  hands,  to  begin  at  the  foundation.  And  again  he 
leered  at  Paul,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  tackle  him  with 
the  Greek  alphabet  on  the  spot. 

''  That  circumstance,  indeed.  Doctor  Blimber,"  pursued 
Mr.  Dombey,  glancing  at  his  little  son,  ''  and  the  interview  I 
have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  holding  with  you,  renders 
any  further  explanation,  and  consequently  any  further  intru- 
sion on  your  valuable  time,  so  unnecessary,  that — " 

"  Now,  Miss  Dombey  !  "  said  the  acid  Pipchin. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  the   doctor,  "  one  moment.     Allow  me 


15(5  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

to  present  Mrs.  Blimber  and  my  daughter,  who  will  be  asso- 
ciated with  the  domestic  life  of  our  young  Pilgrim  to  Par- 
nassus. Mrs.  Blimber,"  for  the  lady,  who  had  perhaps  been 
in  waiting,  opportunely  entered,  followed  by  her  daughter, 
that  fair  Sexton  in  spectacles,  *'  Mr.  Dombey.  My  daughter 
Cornelia,  Mr.  Dombey.  Mr.  Dombey,  my  love,"  pursued 
the  doctor,  turning  to  his  wife,  ^'  is  so  confiding  as  to — do 
you  see  our  little  friend  ?  " 

Mrs.  Blimber,  in  an  excess  of  politeness  of,  which  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  the  object,  apparently  did  not,  for  she  was  backing 
against  the  Httle  friend,  and  very  much  endangering  his  posi- 
tion on  the  table.  But,  on  this  hint,  she  turned  to  admire  his 
classical  and  intellectual  lineaments,  and  turning  again  to 
Mr.  Dombey,  said,   with  a  sigh,  that  she  envied  his  dear  son. 

"  Like  a  bee,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  uplifted  eyes, 
"  about  to  plunge  into  a  garden  of  the  choicest  flowers,  and 
sip  the  sweets  for  the  first  time.  Virgil,  Horace,  Ovid, 
Terence,  Plautus,  Cicero.  What  a  world  of  honey  have  we 
here.  It  may  appear  remarkable,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  one  who 
is  a  wife — the  wife  of  such  a  husband — " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  said  Dr.  Blimber.     "  Fie  for  shame." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  will  forgive  the  partiality  of  a  wife,"  said 
Mrs.  Blimber,  with  an  engaging  smile. 

Mr.  Dombey  answered  "  Not  at  all  ;  "  applying  those 
words,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  to  the  partialit}^,  and  not  to  the 
forgiveness. 

" — And  it  may  seem  remarkable  in  one  who  is  a  mother 
also,"  resumed  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"And  such  a  mother,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  bowing 
with  some  confused  idea  of  being  complimentary  to  Cor- 
nelia. 

"  But  really,"  pursued  Mrs.  Blimber,  "  I  think  if  I  could 
have  known  Cicero,  and  been  his  friend,  and  talked  with  him 
in  his  retirement  at  Tusculum  (beautiful  Tusculum  !),  I  could 
have  died  contented." 

A  learned  enthusiasm  is  so  very  contagious,  that  Mr. 
Dombey  half  believed  this  was  exactly  his  case  ;  and  even 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  was  not,  as  we  have  seen,  of  an  accom- 
modating disposition  generally,  gave  utterance  to  a  little 
sound  between  a  groan  and  a  sigh,  as  if  she  would  have  said 
that  nobody  but  Cicero  could  have  proved  a  lasting  consola- 
tion under  that  failure  of  the  Peruvian  mines,  but  that  he 
indeed  would  have  been  a  very  Davy-lamp  of  refuge. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  157 

Cornelia  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey  through  her  spectacles,  as 
if  she  would  have  liked  to  crack  a  few  quotations  with  him 
from  the  authority  in  question.  But  this  design,  if  she 
entertained  it,  was  frustrated  by  a  knock  at  the  room 
door. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  Oh!  come  in.  Toots  ; 
come  in.  Mr.  Dombey,  sir."  Toots  bowed.  "  Quite  a  coin- 
cidence !  "  said  Dr.  Blimber.  "  Here  we  have  the  beginning 
and  the  end.  Alpha  and  Omega.  Our  head-boy,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey." 

The  doctor  might  have  called  him  their  head-and-should- 
ers  boy,  for  he  was  at  least  that  much  taller  than  any  of  the 
rest.  He  blushed  very  much  at  finding  himself  among 
strangers,  and  chuckled  aloud. 

"An  addition  to  our  little  Portico,  Toots,"  said  the  doctor  ; 
*'  Mr.  Dombey 's  son." 

Young  Toots  blushed  again  ;  and  finding,  from  a  solemn 
silence  which  prevailed,  that  he  was  expected  to  say  some- 
thing, said  to  Paul,  "  How  are  you  ?  "  in  a  voice  so  deep,  and 
a  manner  so  sheepish,  that  if  a  lamb  had  roared  it  couldn't 
have  been  more  surprising. 

"Ask  Mr.  Feeder,  if  you  please.  Toots,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  to  prepare  a  few  introductory  volumes  for  Mr.  Dombey's 
son,  and  to  allot  him  a  convenient  seat  for  study.  My  dear, 
I  believe  Mr.  Dombey  has  not  seen  the  dormitories." 

"  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  walk  up  stairs,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber, 
"  I  shall  be  more  than  proud  to  show  him  the  dominions  of 
the  drowsy  god." 

With  that,  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  was  a  lady  of  great  suavity, 
and  a  wiry  figure,  and  who  wore  a  cap  composed  of  sky-blue 
materials,  proceeded  up  stairs  with  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cor- 
nelia ;  Mrs.  Pipchin  following,  and  looking  out  sharp  for  her 
enemy  the  footman. 

While  they  were  gone,  Paul  sat  upon  the  table,  holding 
Florence  by  the  hand,  and  glancing  timidly  from  the  doctor 
round  and  round  the  room,  while  the  doctor,  leaning  back 
in  his  chair,  with  his  hand  in  his  breast  as  usual,  held  a  book 
from  him  at  arm's  length,  and  read.  There  was  something  very 
awful  in  this  manner  of  reading.  It  was  such  a  determined, 
unimpassioned,  inflexible,  cold-blooded  way  of  going  to  work. 
It  left  the  doctor's  countenance  exposed  to  view  ;  and  when 
the  doctor  smiled  auspiciously  at  his  author,  or  knit  his 
brows,  or  shook  his  head  and   made  wry  faces  at  him,  as 


158  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

much  as  to  say,  "  Don't  tell  me,  sir  ;    I  know  better,"  it  was 
terrific. 

Toots,  too,  had  no  business  to  be  outside  the  door, 
ostentatiously  examining  the  wheels  in  his  watch,  and  count- 
ing his  half-crowns.  But  that  didn't  last  long;  for  Dr. 
Blimber,  happening  to  change  the  position  of  his  tight  plump 
legs,  as  if  he  were  going  to  get  up,  Toots  swiftly  vanished, 
and  appeared  no  more. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  his  conductress  were  soon  heard  coming 
down  stairs  again,  talking  all  the  way  ;  and  presently  they  re- 
entered the  doctor's  study. 

"  I  hope,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  doctor,  laying  down  his 
book,  "  that  the  arrangements  meet  your  approval." 

''  They  are  excellent,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Very  fair,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
never  disposed  to  give  too  much  encouragement. 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  wheeling  round,  "  will, 
with  your  permission,  doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber,  visit  Paul 
now  and  then." 

"Whenever  Mrs.  Pipchin  pleases,"  observed  the  doctor. 

"  Always  happy  to  see  her,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  given  all  the  trouble, 
I  need,  and  may  take  my  leave.  Paul,  my  child,"  he  went 
close  to  him,  as  he  sat  upon  the  table.     "  Good-by." 

''  Good-by,  papa." 

The  limp  and  careless  little  hand  that  Mr.  Dombey  took  in 
his  was  singularly  out  of  keeping  with  the  wistful  face.  But 
he  had  no  part  in  its  sorrowful  expression.  It  w^as  not 
addressed  to  him.     No,  no.     To  Florence — all  to  Florence. 

If  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  insolence  of  wealth,  had  ever  made 
an  enemy,  hard  to  appease  and  cruelly  vindictive  in  his  hate, 
even  such  an  enemy  might  have  received  the  pang  that  wrung 
his  proud  heart  then,  as  compensation  for  his  injur3\ 

He  bent  down  over  his  boy,  and  kissed  him.  If  his  sight 
were  dimmed  as  he  did  so,  by  something  that  for  a  moment 
bliirred  the  little  face,  and  made  it  indistinct  to  him,  his  mental 
vision  may  have  been,  for  that  short  time,  the  clearer  perhaps. 

"  I  shall  see  you  soon,  Paul.  You  are  free  on  Saturdays 
and  Sundays,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  papa,"  returned  Paul  :  looking  at  his  sister.  "  On 
Saturdays  and  Sundays." 

"  And  you'll  try  and  learn  a  great  deal  here,  and  be  a 
clever  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  won't  you  ?  " 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  150 

"  I'll  trv,"  returned  the  child,  wearily. 

"  And  you'll  soon  be  grown  up  now  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Oh! 'very  soon!"  replied  the  child.  Once  more  the 
old,  old  look  passed  rapidly  across  his  features  like  a  strange 
light.  It  fell  on  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  extinguished  itself  in 
her  black  dress.  That  excellent  ogress  stepped  forward  to 
take  leave  and  to  bear  off  Florence,  which  she  had  long  been 
thirsting  to  do.  The  move  on  her  part  roused  Mr.  Dombey, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  Paul.  After  patting  him  on  the 
head,  and  pressing  his  small  hand  again,  he  took  leave  of 
Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  with  his 
usual  polite  frigidity,  and  walked  out  of  the  study. 

Despite  his  entreaty  that  they  would  not  think  of  stirring. 
Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs^  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber  all  pressed 
forward  to  attend  him  to  the  hall  ;  and  thus  Mrs.  Pipchin  got 
into  a  state  of  entanglement  with  Miss  Blimber  and  the 
doctor,  and  was  crowded  out  of  the  study  before  she  could 
clutch  Florence.  To  which  happy  accident  Paul  stood  after- 
ward indebted  for  the  dear  remembrance,  that  Florence  ran 
back  to  throw  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  that  hers  was 
the  last  face  in  the  doorway  :  turned  toward  him  with  a 
smile  of  encouragement,  the  brighter  for  the  tears  through 
which  it  beamed. 

It  made  his  childish  bosom  heave  and  swell  when  it  was 
gone  ;  and  sent  the  globes,  the  books,  blind  Homer  and 
Minerva,  swimming  round  the  room.  But  they  stopped,  all 
of  a  sudden  ;  and  then  he  heard  the  loud  clock  in  the  hall, 
still  gravely  inquiring  "  How,  is,  my,  lit,  tie,  friend  ?  how,  is, 
my,  lit,  tie,' friend  ?  "  as  it  had  done  before. 

He  sat  with  folded  hands,  upon  his  pedestal,  silently  listen- 
ing. But  he  might  have  answered,  "  Weary,  weary  !  very 
lonelv,  verv  sad  !  "  And  there,  with  an  aching  void  in  his 
youn'g  heart,  and  all  outside  so  cold,  and  bare,  and  strange, 
Paul  sat  as  if  he  had  taken  life  unfurnished,  and  the  up- 
holsterer were  never  coming. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Paul's   education. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  minutes, which  appeared  an  immense 
time  to  little  Paul  Dombey  on  the   table.    Doctor  Blimber 


i6o  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

came  back.  The  doctor's  walk  was  stately,  and  cal- 
culated to  impress  the  juvenile  mind  with  solemn  feel- 
ings. It  was  a  sort  of  march  ;  but  when  the  doctor  put  out 
his  right  foot,  he  gravely  turned  upon  his  axis,  with  a  semi- 
circular sweep  toward  the  left  :  when  he  put  out  his  left  foot, 
he  turned  in  the  same  manner  toward  the  right.  So  that  he 
seemed,  at  every  stride  he  took,  to  look  about  him  as  though 
he  were  saying,  ^'  Can  any  body  have  the  goodness  to  indi- 
cate any  subject,  in  any  direction,  on  which  I  am  unin- 
formed ?  I  rather  think  not." 

Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blimber  came  back  in  the  doctor's 
company  ;  and  the  doctor,  lifting  his  new  pupil  off  the  table, 
delivered  him  over  to  Miss  Blimber. 

''  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor,  "  Dombey  will  be  your  charge 
at  first.     Bring  him  on,  Cornelia,  bring  him  on." 

Miss  Blimber  received  her  young  ward  from  the  doctor's 
hands  ;  and  Paul,  feeling  that  the  spectacles  were  surveying 
him,  cast  down  his  eyes. 

"  How  old  are  you,  Dombey  ? "  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"  Six,"  answered  Paul,  wondering,  as  he  stole  a  glance  at 
the  young  lady,  why  her  hair  didn't  grow  long  like  Florence's, 
and  why  she  was  like  a  boy. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  of  your  Latin  Grammar,  Dom- 
bey ?"  said  Miss  Blimber. 

"  None  of  it,"  answered  Paul.  Feeling  that  the  answer 
was  a  shock  to  Miss  Blimber' s  sensibility,  he  looked  up  at 
the  three  faces  that  were  looking  down  at  him,  and  said  : 

*'  I  haven't  been  well.  I  have  been  a  weak  child.  I 
couldn't  learn  a  Latin  Grammar,  when  I  was  out  every  day 
with  old  Glubb.  I  wish  you'd  tell  old  Glubb  to  come  and 
see  me,  if  you  please." 

"  What  a  dreadful  low  name  !  "  said  Mrs.  Blimber.  *'  Un- 
classical  to  a  degree  !  Who  is  the  monster,  child  ?  " 

"What  monster  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 

"Glubb,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  a  great  disrelish. 

"  He's  no  more  a  monster  than  you  are,"  returned  Paul. 

"What !  "  cried  the  doctor,  in  a  terrible  voice.  "  Ay,  ay,, 
ay?     Aha  !  What's  that?" 

Paul  was  dreadfully  frightened  ;  but  still  he  made  a  stand 
for  the  absent  Glubb,  though  he  did  it  trembling. 

"  He's  a  very  nice  old  man,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  He  used 
to  draw  my  couch.  He  knows  all  about  the  deep  sea,  and 
the  fish  that  are  in  it,  and  the  great  monsters  that  come  and 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  i6i 

lie  on  rocks  in  the  sun,  and  dive  into  the  water  again  when 
they're  startled,  blowing  and  splashing  so  that  they  can  be 
heard  for  miles.  There  are  some  creatures,"  said  Paul,  warm- 
ing with  his  subject,  "I  don't  know  how  many  yards  long, 
and  I  forget  their  names,  but  Florence  knows,  that  pretend  to 
be  in  distress  ;  and  when  a  man  goes  near  them,  out  of  com- 
passion, they  open  their  great  jaws  and  attack  him.  But  all 
he  has  got  to  do,"  said  Paul,  boldly  tendering  this  information, 
to  the  very  doctor  himself,  "  is  to  keep  on  turning  as  he  runs 
away,  and  then,  as  they  turn  slowly,  because  they  are  so  long, 
and  can't  bend,  he's  sure  to  beat  them.  And  though  old 
Glubb  don't  know  why  the  sea  should  make  me  think  of  my 
mamma  that's  dead,  or  what  it  is  that  it  is  always  saying— al- 
ways saying  !  he  knows  a  great  deal  about  it.  And  I  wish," 
the  child  concluded,with  a  sudden  falling  of  his  countenance, 
and  failing  in  his  animation,  as  he  looked  like  one  forlorn, 
upon  the  three  strange  faces,  "  that  you'd  let  old  Glubb 
come  here  to  see  me,  for  I  know  him  very  well,  and  he  knows 
me." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  the  doctor,  shaking  his  head,  "  this  is  bad, 
but  studv  will  do  much." 

Mrs.  Blimber  opined,  with  something  like  a  shiver,  that  he 
was  an  unaccountable  child  ;  and,  allowing  for  the  difference 
of  visage,  looked  at  him  pretty  much  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  had 
been  used  to  do. 

"  Take  him  round  the  house,  Cornelia,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  and  familiarize  him  with  his  new  sphere.  Go  with  that 
young  ladv,  Dombey." 

Dombey  obeyed  ;'  giving  his  hand  to  the  abstruse  Cornelia, 
and  looking  at  her  sideways,  with  timid  curiosity,  as  they 
went  away  together.  For  her  spectacles,  by  reason  of  the 
glistening  of  the  glasses,  made  her  so  mysterious,  that  he 
didn't  know  where  she  was  looking,  and  was  not  indeed  quite 
sure  that  she  had  any  eyes  at  all  behind  them. 

CorneUa  took  him  first  to  the  school-room,  which  was  sit- 
uated at  the  back  of  the  hall,  and  was  approached  through 
two  baize  doors,  which  deadened  and  muffled  the  young 
gentlemen's  voices.  Here  there  were  eight  young  gentlemen 
in  various  stages  of  mental  prostration,  all  very  hard  at  work, 
and  very  grave  indeed.  Toots,  as  an  old  hand,  had  a  desk  to 
himself  m  one  corner  :  and  a  magnificent  man,  of  immense 
age,  he  looked,  in  Paul's  young  eyes,  behind  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  who  sat  at  another  little  desk,  had  hia 


i62  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Virgil  stop  on,  and  was  slowly  grinding  that  tune  to  four 
young  gentlemen.  Of  the  remaining  four,  two,  who  grasped 
their  foreheads  convulsively,  were  engaged  in  solving  mathe- 
matical problems  ;  one  with  his  face  Ukea  dirty  window,  from 
much  crying,  was  endeavoring  to  flounder  through  a  hopeless 
number  of  lines  before  dinner  ;  and  one  sat  looking  at  his  task 
in  stony  stupefaction  and  despair — which,  it  seemed,  had 
been  his  condition  ever  since  breakfast-time. 

The  appearance  of  a  new  boy  did  not  create  the  sensation 
that  might  have  been  expected.  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.  (who  was  in 
the  habit  of  shaving  his  head  for  coolness,  and  had  nothing  but 
little  bristtes  on  it),  gave  him  a  bony  hand,  and  told  him  he  ^ 
was  glad  to  see  him — which  Paul  would  have  been  very  glad 
to  have  told  him,  if  he  could  have  done  so  with  the  least  sin- 
cerity. Then  Paul,  instructed  by  Cornelia,  shook  hands  with 
the  four  young  gentlemen  at  Mr.  Feeder's  desk  ;  then  with 
the  two  young  gentlemen  at  work  on  the  problems,  who  were 
very  feverish  ;  then  with  the  young  gentleman  at  work 
against  time,  who  was  very  inky  ;  and  lastly  with  the  young 
gentleman  in  a  state  of  stupefaction,  who  was  flabby  and  quite 
cold. 

Paul  having  been  already  introduced  to  Toots,  that  pupil 
merely  chuckled  and  breathed  hard,  as  his  custom  was,  and 
pursued  the  occupation  in  which  he  was  engaged.  It  was  not 
a  severe  one  ;  for  on  account  of  his  having  "  gone  through  " 
so  much  (in  more  senses  than  one),  and  also  of  his  having,  as 
before  hinted,  left  off  blowing  in  his  prime.  Toots  now  had 
license  to  pursue  his  own  course  of  study  :  which  was  chiefly  to 
write  long  letters  to  himself  from  persons  of  distinction, 
addressed  "  P.  Toots,  Esquire,  Brighton,  Sussex,"  and  to  pre- 
serve them  in  his  desk  with  great  care. 

These  ceremonies  passed,  Cornelia  led  Paul  up  stairs  to  the 
top  of  the  house  ;  which  was  rather  a  slow  journey,  on 
account  of  Paul  being  obliged  to  land  both  feet  on  every  stair 
before  he  mounted  another.  But  they  reached  their  journey's 
end  at  last  ;  and  there,  in  a  front  room,  looking  over  the  wild 
sea,  Cornelia  showed  him  a  nice  little  bed  with  white  hang- 
ings, close  to  the  window,  on  which  there  was  already  beauti- 
fully written  on  a  card  in  round  text — down  strokes  very 
thick,  and  up  strokes  very  fine— Dombey  ;  while  two  other 
little  bedsteads  in  the  same  room  were  announced,  through 
like  means,  as  respectively  appertaining  unto  Briggs  and 
TozER. 


DOMBEY.AND   SON.  163 

Just  as  they  got  down  stairs  again  into  the  hall,  Paul  saw 
the  weak-eyed  young  man  who  had  given  that  mortal  offense 
to  Mrs.  Pipchin  suddenly  seize  a  very  large  drumstick,  and  fly 
at  a  gong  that  was  hanging  up  as  if  he  had  gone  mad,  or 
wanted  vengeance.  Instead  of  receiving  warning,  however, 
or  being  instantly  taken  into  custody,  the  young  man  left  off 
unchecked,  after  having  made  a  dreadful  noise.  Then 
('ornelia  Blimber  said  to  Dombey  that  dinner  would  be  ready 
in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  perhaps  he  had  better  go  into  the 
school-room  among  his  "  friends." 

So  Dombey,  deferentially  passing  the  great  clock  which 
was  still  as  anxious  as  ever  to  know  how  he  found  himself, 
opened  <"he  school-room  door  a  very  little  way,  and  strayed 
in  like  a  lost  boy  :  shutting  it  after  him  with  some  diffi- 
culty. His  friends  were  all  dispersed  about  the  room  except 
the  stony  friend,  who  remained  immovable.  Mr.  Feeder 
v/as  stretching  himself  in  his  gray  gown,  as  if,  regardless  of 
expense,  he  were  resolved  to  pull  the  sleeves  off. 

"  Heigh-ho-hum  !  "  cried  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  himself 
like  a  cart-horse  ;  "  oh  dear  me,  dear  me  !     Ya-a-a-ah  !  " 

Paul  was  quite  alarmed  by  Mr.  Feeder's  yawning  ;  it  was 
done  on  such  a  great  scale,  and  he  was  so  terribly  in  earn- 
est. All  the  boys  too  (Toots  excepted)  seemed  knocked  up, 
and  were  getting  ready  for  dinner — some  newly  tying  their 
neckcloths,  which  were  very  stiff  indeed  ;  and  others  wash- 
ing their  hands  or  brushing  their  hair  in  an  adjoining  ante- 
chamber— as  if  they  didn't  think  they  should  enjoy  it  at  all. 

Young  Toots,  who  was  ready  beforehand,  and  had  there- 
fore nothing  to  do,  and  had  leisure  to  bestow  upon  Paul,  said, 
with  heavy  good-nature  : 

"Sit  down,  Dombey." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 

His  endeavoring  to  hoist  himself  on  to  a  very  high  window- 
seat,  and  his  slipping  down  again,  appeared  to  prepare  Toots's 
mind  for  the  reception  of  a  discovery. 

"  You're  a  very  small  chap,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I'm    small,"  returned  Paul.     "  Thank  you,  sir." 

For  Toots  had  lifted  him  into  the  seat,  and  done  it  kindly 
too. 

"  Who's  your  tailor  ?  "  inquired  Toots,  after  looking  at  him 
for  some  moments. 

"It's  a  woman  that  has  made  my  clothes  as  yet,"  said 
Paul.     "  My  sister's  dress-maker." 


i64  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  My  tailor's  Burgess  and  Co.,"  said  Toots.     "  Fash'nable. 
But  very  dear." 

Paul  had  wit  enough  to  shake  his  head,  as  if  he  would  have 
said  it  was  easy  to  see  that ;  and  indeed  he  thought  so. 

"  Your  father's  regularly  rich,  ain't  he  ? "  inquired  Mr. 
Toots. 

''  Yes,  sir,"  said  Paul.     *'  He's  Dombey  and  Son." 
"  And  which  ?  "  demanded  Toots. 
"  And  Son,  sir,"  replied  Paul. 

Mr.  Toots  made  one  or  two  attempts,  in  a  low  voice,  to 
fix  the  firm  in  his  mind  ;  but  not  quite  succeeding,  said  he 
would  get  Paul  to  mention  the  name  again  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, as  it  was  rather  important.  And  indeed  he  purposed 
nothing  less  than  writing  himself  a  private  and  confidential 
letter  from  Dombey  and  Son  immediately. 

By  this  time  the  other  pupils  (always  excepting  the  stony 
boy)  gathered  round.  They  were  polite,  but  pale  ;  and 
spoke  low  ;  and  they  were  so  depressed  in  their  spirits  that, 
in  comparison  with  the  general  tone  of  that  company,  Master 
Bitherstone  was  a  perfect  Miller,  or  complete  Jest  Book. 
And  yet  he  had  a  sense  of  injury  upon  him,  too,  had  Bither- 
stone. 

"  You  sleep  in  my  room,  don't  you  ? "  asked  a  solemn 
young  gentleman,  whose  shirt-collar  curled  up  the  lobes  of 
his  ears. 

"  Master  Briggs  ?  "  inquired  Paul. 
"  Tozer,"  said  the  young  gentleman. 

Paul  answered  yes  ;  and  Tozer  pointing  out  the  stony  pupil, 
said  that  it  was  Briggs.  Paul  had  already  felt  certain  that 
it  must  be  either  Briggs  or  Tozer,  though  he  didn't  know  why. 
"  Is  yours  a  strong  constitution  ?  "  inquired  Tozer. 
Paul  said  he  thought  not.  Tozer  replied  that  he  thought 
not  also,  judging  from  Paul's  looks,  and  that  it  was  a  pity, 
for  it  need  be.  He  then  asked  Paul  if  he  were  going  to 
begin  with  Cornelia  ;  and  on  Paul  saying  "  Yes,"  all  the  young 
gentlemen  (Briggs  excepted)  gave  a  low  groan. 

It  was  drowned  in  the  tintinnabulation  of  the  gong,  which 
sounding  again  with  great  fury,  there  was  a  general  move 
toward  the  dining-room  ;  still  excepting  Briggs  the  stony  boy, 
who  remained  where  he  was,  and  as  he  was  ;  and  on  its 
way  to  whom  Paul  presently  encountered  a  round  of  bread, 
genteelly  served  on  a  plate  and  napkin,  and  with  a  silver 
fork  lying  crosswise  on  the  top  of  it. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  165 

Doctor  Blimber  was  already  in  his  place  in  the  dining- 
room,  at  the  top  of  the  table,  with  Miss  Blimber  and  Mrs. 
Blimber  on  either  side  of  him.  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  black  coat, 
was  at  the  bottom.  Paul's  chair  was  next  to  Miss  Blimber  ; 
but  it  being  found,  when  he  sat  in  it,  that  his  eyebrows 
were  not  much  above  the  level  of  the  table-cloth,  some  books 
were  brought  in  from  the  doctor's  study,  on  which  he  was 
elevated,  and  on  which  he  always  sat  from  that  time — carry- 
ing them  in  and  out  himself  on  after  occasions,  like  a  little 
elephant  and  castle. 

Grace  having  been  said  by  the  doctor,  dinner  began. 
There  was  some  nice  soup  ;  also  roast  meat,  boiled  meat, 
vegetables,  pie,  and  cheese.  Every  young  gentleman  had  si 
massive  silver  fork,  and  a  napkin  ;  and  all  the  arrangements 
were  stately  and  handsome.  In  particular,  there  was  a  but- 
ler in  a  blue  coat  and  bright  buttons,  who  gave  quite  a 
winey  flavor  to  the  table  beer  ;  he  poured  it  out  so  su- 
perbly. 

Nobody  spoke,  unless  spoken  to,  except  Doctor  Blimber, 
Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss  Blimber,  who  conversed  occasion- 
ally. Whenever  a  young  gentleman  was  not  actually  engaged 
with  his  knife  and  fork  or  spoon,  his  eye,  with  an  irresistible 
attraction,  sought  the  eye  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber, 
or  Miss  Blimber,  and  modestly  rested  there.  Toots  appeared 
to  be  the  only  exception  to  this  rule.  He  sat  next  Mr.  Feeder 
on  Paul's  side  of  the  table,  and  frequently  looked  behind  and 
before  the  intervening  boys  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Paul. 

Only  once  during  dinner  was  there  any  conversation  that 
included  the  young  gentlemen.  It  happened  at  the  epoch  of 
the  cheese,  when  the  doctor,  having  taken  a  glass  of  port- 
wine,  and  hemmed  twice  or  thrice,  said  : 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  terrible  people,  their  implacable 
enemies,  every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze  upon  the 
doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the  deepest  interest.  One  of 
the  number  who  happened  to  be  drinking,  and  who  caught 
the  doctor's  eye  glaring  at  him  through  the  side  of  his  tum- 
bler, left  off  so  hastily  that  he  was  convulsed  for  some 
moments,  and  in   the  sequel    ruined  Doctor  Blimber's  point. 

"  It  is  remarkable,  Mr.  Feeder,"  said  the  doctor,  begin- 
ning again  slowly,  ''  that  the  Romans,  in  those  gorgeous  and 
profuse  entertainments  of  v.hich  we  read  in  the  days  of  the 
emperors,   when   luxury   had    attained  a   height    unknown 


i66  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

before  or  since,  and  when  whole  provinces  were  ravaged  to 
supply  the  splendid  means  of  one  imperial  banquet — " 

Here  the  offender,  who  had  been  swelling  and  straining 
and  waiting  in  vain  for  a  full  stop,  broke  out  violently. 

"  Johnson,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  in  a  low,  reproachful  voice, 
"take  some  water." 

The  doctor,  looking  very  stern,  made  a  pause  until  the 
water  was  brought,  and  then  resumed  : 

"  And  when,"Mr.  Feeder — " 
'  But  Mr.  Feeder,  who  saw  that  Johnson  must  break 
out  again,  and  who  knew  that  the  doctor  would  never  come 
to  a  period  before  the  young  gentlemen  until  he  had  finished 
all  he  meant  to  say,  couldn't  keep  his  eye  off  Johnson  ;  and 
thus  was  caught  in  the  fact  of  not  looking  at  the  doctor,  who 
consequently  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  reddening.  "  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Doctor  Blimber." 

"And  when,"  said  the  doctor,  raising  his  voice,  "when, 
sir,  as  we  read,  and  have  no  reason  to  doubt — incredible  as 
it  may  appear  to  the  vulgar  of  our  time — the  brother  of 
Vitellius  prepared  for  him  a  feast,  in  which  were  served,  of 
fish,  two  thousand  dishes — " 

"  Take  some  water,  Johnson — dishes,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Feeder. 

"  Of  various  sorts  of  fowl,  five  thousand  dishes." 

"  Or  try  a  crust  of  bread,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  And  one  dish,"  pursued  Doctor  Blimber,  raising  his 
voice  still  higher  as  he  looked  all  round  the  table,  "  called, 
from  its  enormous  dimensions,  the  Shield  of  Minerva,  and 
made,  among  other  costly  ingredients,  of  the  brains  of 
pheasants — " 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  !  "  (from  Johnson). 

"  Woodcocks—" 

"  Ow,  ow,  ow  !  " 

"  The  sounds  of  the  fish  called  scari — " 

"  You'll  burst  some  vessel  in  your  head,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 
"  You  had  better  let  it  come." 

"  And  the  spawn  of  the  lamprey,  brought  from  the  Carpa- 
thian Sea,"  pursued  the  doctor,  in  his  severest  voice  ; 
"  when  we  read  of  costly  entertainments  such  as  these,  and 
still  remember  that  we  have  a  Titus — " 

"  What  would  be  your  mother's  feelings  if  you  died  of 
apoplexy  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  i6y 

"A  Domitian— " 

"  And  you're  blue,  you  know,"  said  INIr.  Feeder. 

"  A  Nero,  a  Tiberius,  a  Caligula,  a  Heliogabalus,  and 
many  more,"  pursued  the  doctor;  "it  is,  Mr.  Feeder — if 
you  are  doing  me  the  honor  to  attend — remarkable  :  very — 
remarkable,  sir — " 

But  Johnson,  unable  to  suppress  it  any  longer,  burst  at 
that  moment  into  such  an  overwhelming  fit  of  coughing, 
that  although  both  his  immediate  neighbors  thumped  him 
on  the  back,  and  Mr.  Feeder  himself  held  a  glass  of  water 
to  his  lips,  and  the  butler  walked  him  up  and  down  several 
times  between  his  own  chair  and  the  sideboard,  like  a  sentry, 
it  was  full  five  minutes  before  he  was  moderately  composed, 
and  then  there  was  a  profound  silence. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  "  rise  for  grace ! 
Cornelia,  lift  Dombey  down  " — nothing  of  whom  but  his 
scalp  was  accordingly  seen  above  the  table-cloth.  "  John- 
son will  repeat  to  me  to-morrow  morning  before  breakfast, 
without  book,  and  from  the  Greek  Testament,  the  first  chap- 
ter of  the  Epistle  of  Saint  Paul  to  the  Ephesians.  We  will 
resume  our  studies,  Mr.   Feeder,  in  half  an  hour." 

The  young  gentlemen  bowed  and  withdrew.  jNIr.  Feeder 
did  likewise.  During  the  half  hour  the  young  gentlemen, 
broken  into  pairs,  loitered  arm  in  arm  up  and  down  a  small 
piece  of  ground  behind  the  house,  or  endeavored  to  kindle 
a  spark  of  animation  in  the  breast  of  Briggs.  *But  nothing 
happened  so  vulgar  as  play.  Punctually  at  the  appointed 
time  the  gong  was  sounded,  and  the  studies,  under  the  joint 
auspices  of  Doctor  Blimber  and  Mr.  Feeder,  were  resumed. 

As  the  Olympic  game  of  lounging  up  and  down  had  been 
cut  shorter  than  usual  that  day,  on  Johnson's  account,  they 
all  went  out  for  a  walk  before  tea.  Even  Briggs  (though  he 
hadn't  begun  yet)  partook  of  this  dissipation  ;  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  which  he  looked  over  the  cliff  two  or  three  times 
darkly.  Doctor  Blimber  accompanied  them  ;  and  Paul  had 
the  honor  of  being  taken  in  tow  by  the  doctor  himself — a 
distinguished  state  of  things,  in  which  he  looked  very  little 
and  feeble. 

Tea  was  served  in  a  style  no  less  polite  than  the  dinner  ; 
and  after  tea,  the  young  gentlemen,  rising  and  bowing  as 
before,  withdrew  to  fetch  up  the  unfinished  tasks  of  that  day, 
or  to  get  up  the  already  looming  tasks  of  to-morrow.  In 
the  mean  time  Mr.  Feeder  withdrew  to  his  own  room  ;  and 


158  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Paul  sat  in  a  corner  wondering  whether  Florence  was  think- 
ing of  him,  and  what  they  were   all  about  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's. 

Mr.  Toots,  who  had  been  detained  by  an  important  letter 
from  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  found  Paul  out  after  a  time  ; 
and  having  looked  at  him  for  a  long  while,  as  before, 
inquired  if  he  was  fond  of  waistcoats. 

Paul  said  "  Yes,  sir." 

*'  So  am  I,"  said  Toots. 

No  word  more  spake  Toots  that  night  ;  but  he  stood  look- 
ing at  Paul  as  if  he  liked  him  ;  and  as  there  was  company 
in  that,  and  Paul  was  not  inclined  to  talk,  it  answered  his 
purpose  better  than  conversation. 

At  eight  o'clock  or  so,  the  gong  sounded  again  for  prayers 
in  the  dining-room,  where  the  butler  afterward  presided  over 
a  side-table,  on  which  bread  and  cheese  and  beer  were 
spread  for  such  young  gentlemen  as  desired  to  partake  of 
those  refreshments.  The  ceremonies  concluded  by  the 
doctor's  saying,  ''  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  at 
seven  to-morrow  ;  "  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  Paul  saw 
Cornelia  Blimber's  eye,  and  saw  that  it  was  upon  him.  When 
the  doctor  had  said  these  words,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will 
resume  our  studies  at  seven  to-morrow,"  the  pupils  bowed 
again,  and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  confidence  of  their  own  room  up  stairs,  Briggs  said 
his  head  ached  ready  to  split,  and  that  he  should  wish  him- 
self dead  if  it  wasn't  for  his  mother,  and  a  blackbird  he  had 
at  home.  Tozer  didn't  say  much,  but  he  sighed  a  good 
deal,  and  told  Paul  to  look  out,  for  his  turn  would  come  to- 
morrow. After  uttering  those  prophetic  words,  he  undressed 
himself  moodily  and  got  into  bed.  Briggs  was  in  his  bed 
too,  and  Paul  in  his  bed  too,  before  the  weak-eyed  young 
man  appeared  to  take  away  the  candle,  when  he  wished 
them  good-night  and  pleasant  dreams.  But  his  benevolent 
wishes  were  in  vain  as  far  as  Briggs  and  Tozer  were  con- 
cerned ;  for  Paul,  who  lay  awake  for  a  long  while,  and  often 
woke  afterward,  found  that  Briggs  was  ridden  by  his  lesson 
as  a  nightmare  ;  and  that  Tozer,  whose  mind  was  affected 
in  his  sleep  by  similar  causes,  in  a  minor  degree,  talked 
unknown  tongues,  or  scraps  of  Greek  and  Latin — it  was  all 
one  to  Paul — which,  in  the  silence  of  night,  had  an  inex- 
pressibly wicked  and  guilty  effect. 

Paul  had  sunk  into  a  sweet  sleep,  and  dreamed  that  he 
was  walking  hand  in  hand  with   Florence  through  beautiful 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  169 

gardens,  when  they  came  to  a  large  sunflower  which  sud- 
denly expanded  itself  into  a  gong,  and  began  to  sound. 
Opening  his  eyes,  he  found  that  it  was  a  dark,  windy  morn- 
ing, with  a  drizzling  rain  ;  and  that  the  real  gong  was  giv- 
ing dreadful  note  of  preparation  down  in  the  hall. 

So  he  got  up  directly,  and  found  Briggs  with  hardly  any 
eyes,  for  nightmare  and  grief  had  made  his  face  puffy,  put- 
ting his  boots  on,  w^hile  Tozer  stood  shivering  and  rubbing 
his  shoulders  in  a  very  bad  humor.  Poor  Paul  couldn't 
dress  himself  easily,  not  being  used  to  it,  and  asked  them 
if  they  would  have  the  goodness  to  tie  some  strings  for  him  ; 
but  as  Briggs  merely  said  ''  Bother  !  "  and  Tozer,  "  Oh  yes  !" 
he  went  down,  when  he  was  otherwise  ready,  to  the  next 
story,  where  he  saw  a  pretty  young  woman  in  leather  gloves, 
cleaning  a  stove.  The  young  woman  seemed  surprised  at 
his  appearance,  and  asked  him  where  his  mother  was. 
When  Paul  told  her  she  was  dead,  she  took  her  gloves  off, 
and  did  what  he  wanted  ;  and  furthermore  rubbed  his 
hands  to  warm  them  ;  and  gave  him  a  kiss  ;  and  told  him 
whenever  he  wanted  any  thing  of  that  sort — meaning  in  the 
dressing  way — to  ask  for  'Melia  ;  which  Paul,  thanking  her 
very  much,  said  he  certainly  would.  He  then  proceeded 
softly  on  his  journey  down  stairs,  toward  the  room  in  which 
the  young  gentlemen  resumed  their  studies,  when,  passing 
by  a  door  that  stood  ajar,  a  voice  from  within  cried,  "  Is 
that  Dombey  ?  "  On  Paul  replying,  "  Yes,  ma'am  :  "  for  he 
knew  the  voice  to  be  Miss  Blimber's  :  Miss  Blimber  said, 
"  Come  in,  Dombey."     And  in  he  went. 

Miss  Blimber  presented  exactly  the  appearance  she  had 
presented  yesterday,  except  that  she  wore  a  shawl.  Her 
little  light  curls  were  as  crisp  as  ever,  and  she  had  already 
her  spectacles  on,  which  made  Paul  wonder  whether  she 
went  to  bed  in  them.  She  had  a  cool  little  sitting-room  of 
her  own  up  there,  with  some  books  in  it,  and  no  fire.  But 
Miss  Blimber  was  never  cold,  and  never  sleepy. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  I  am  going  out  for 
a  constitutional." 

Paul  wondered  what  that  was,  and  why  she  didn't  send 
the  footman  out  to  get  it  in  such  unfavorable  weather.  But 
he  made  no  observation  on  the  subject  :  his  attention  being 
devoted  to  a  little  pile  of  new  books  on  which  Miss  Blimber 
appeared  to  have  been  recently  engaged. 

"  These  are  yours,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber. 


I70  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  All  of  'em,  ma'am  ?  '  said  Paul. 

"Yes,"  returned  Miss  Blimber  ;  ''and  Mr.  Feeder  will 
look  you  out  some  more  very  soon,  if  you  are  as  studious  as 
I  expect  you  will  be,  Dombey." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

*'  I  am  going  out  for  a  constitutional,"  resumed  Miss 
Blimber  ;  "  and  while  I  am  gone — that  is  to  say,  in  the  inter- 
val between  this  and  breakfast,  Dombey — I  wish  you  to  read 
over  what  I  have  marked  in  these  books,  and  to  tell  me  if 
you  quite  understand  what  you  have  got  to  learn.  Don't 
lose  time,  Dombey,  for  you  have  none  to  spare,  but  take 
them  down  stairs,  and  begin  directly." 

''  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Paul. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  that  although  Paul  put  one 
hand  under  the  bottom  book  and  his  other  hand  and  his 
chin  on  the  top  book,  and  hugged  them  all  closely,  the  mid- 
dle book  slipped  out  before  he  reached  the  door,  and  then 
they  all  tumbled  down  on  the  floor.  Miss  Blimber  said, 
"Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey,  this  is  really  very  careless  !  "  and 
piled  them  up  afresh  for  him  ;  and  this  time,  by  dint  of  bal- 
ancing them  with  great  nicety,  Paul  got  out  of  the  room, 
and  down  a  few  stairs  before  two  of  them  escaped  again. 
But  he  held  the  rest  so  tight,  that  he  only  left  one  more  on 
the  first  floor,  and  one  in  the  passage  ;  and  when  he  had 
got  the  main  body  down  into  the  school-room,  he  set  off  up 
stairs  again  to  collect  the  stragglers.  Having  at  last  amassed 
the  whole  library,  and  climbed  into  his  place,  he  fell  to  work, 
encouraged  by  a  remark  from  Tozer  to  the  effect  that  he 
"  was  in  for  it  now  ;  "  which  was  the  only  interruption  he 
received  till  breakfast-time.  At  that  meal,  for  which  he  had 
no  appetite,  every  thing  was  quite  as  solemn  and  genteel  as 
at  the  others  ;  and  Vv^hen  it  was  finished,  he  followed  Miss 
Blimber  up  stairs. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  how  have  you  got 
on  with  those  books  ?  " 

They  comprised  a  little  English,  and  a  deal  of  Latin — 
names  of  things,  declensioris  of  articles  and  substantives, 
exercises  thereon,  and  preliminary  rules — a  trifle  of  orthog- 
raphy, a  glance  at  ancient  history,  a  wink  or  two  at  modern 
ditto,  a  few  tables,  two  or  three  weights  and  measures,  and  a 
little  general  information.  When  poor  Paul  had- spelled  out 
number  two,  he  found  he  had  no  idea  of  number  one  ;  frag- 
ments whereof  afterward   obtruded   themselves  into  number 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  171 

three,  which  slided  into  number  four,  which  grafted  itself  on 
to  number  two.  So  that  whether  twenty  Romuluses  made  a 
Remus,  or  hie  hsec  hoc  was  troy  weight,  or  a  verb  always 
agreed  with  an  ancient  Briton,  or  three  times  four  was  Tau- 
rus a  bull,  were  open  questions  with  him. 

"  Oh,  Dombey,  Dombey  !  "  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  this  is 
very  shocking." 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Paul,  "  I  think,  if  I  might  some- 
times talk  a  little  to  old  Glubb,  I  should  be  able  to  do 
better." 

"  Nonsense,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't 
hear  of  it.  This  is  not  the  place  for  Glubbs  of  any  kind. 
You  must  take  the  books  down,  I  suppose,  Dombey,  one  by 
one,  and  perfect  yourself  in  the  day's  installment  of  subject 
A,  before  you  turn  at  all  to  subject  B.  And  nov/  take  away 
the  top  book,  if  you  please,  Dombey,  and  return  when  you  are 
master  of  the  theme." 

Miss  Blim.ber  expressed  her  opinions  on  the  subject  of 
Paul's  uninstructed  state  with  a  gloomy  delight,  as  if  she  had 
expected  this  result,  and  were  glad  to  find  that  they  must  be 
in  constant  communication.  Paul  withdrew  with  the  top 
task,  as  he  was  told,  and  labored  away  at  it,  down  below  ; 
sometimes  remembering  every  word  of  it,  and  sometimes 
forgetting  it  all,  and  every  thing  else  besides  :  until  at  last  he 
ventured  up  stairs  again  to  repeat  the  lesson,  when  it  was 
nearly  all  driven  out  of  his  head  before  he  began,  by  Miss 
Blimber's  shutting  up  the  book,  and  saying,  "  Go  on,  Dom- 
bey !  "  a  proceeding  so  suggestive  of  the  knowledge  inside 
of  her,  that  Paul  looked  upon  the  young  lady  with  consterna- 
tion, as  a  kind  of  learned  Guy  Faux,  or  artificial  Bogle,  stuffed 
full  of  scholastic  straw. 

He  acquitted  himself  very  well,  nevertheless  ;  and  Miss 
Blimber,  commending  him  as  giving  promise  of  getting  on 
fast,  immediately  provided  him  with  subject  B  ;  from  Avhich 
he  passed  to  C,  and  even  D  before  dinner.  It  was  hard 
work,  resuming  his  studies  soon  after  dinner  ;  and  he  felt 
giddy  and  confused,  and  drowsy  and  dull.  But  all  the  other 
young  gentlemen  had  similar  sensations,  and  were  obliged  to 
resume  their  studies  too,  if  there  were  any  comfort  in  that. 
It  was  a  wonder  that  the  great  clock  in  the  hall,  instead  of 
being  constant  to  its  first  inquiry,  never  said,  "  Gentlemen, 
we  will  now  resume  our  studies,"  for  that  phrase  was  often 
enough  repeated  in    its    neighborhood.     The  studies  went 


172  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

round  like  a  mighty  wheel,  and  the  young  gentlemen  were 
always  stretched  upon  it. 

After  tea  there  were  exercises  again,  and  preparations  for 
next  day  by  candle-light.  And  in  due  course  there  was  bed  ; 
where,  but  for  that  resumption  of  the  studies  which  took 
place  in  dreams,  were  rest  and  sweet  forgetfulness. 

Oh  Saturdays  !  Oh  happy  Saturdays,  when  Florence  always 
came  at  noon,  and  never  would,  in  any  weather,  stay  away, 
though  Mrs.  Pipchin  snarled  and  growled,  and  worried  her 
bitterly.  Those  Saturdays  were  Sabbaths  for  at  least  two 
little  Christians  among  all  the  Jews,  and  did  the  holy  Sab- 
bath work  of  strengthening  and  knitting  up  a  brother's  and  a 
sister's  love. 

Not  even  Sunday  nights — the  heavy  Sunday  nights,  whose 
shadow  darkened  the  first  waking  burst  of  light  on  Sunday 
mornings — could  mar  those  precious  Saturdays.  Whether 
it  was  the  great  sea-shore,  where  they  sat,  and  strolled 
together  ;  or  whether  it  was  only  Mrs.  Pipchin' s  dull  back- 
room, in  which  she  sang  to  him  so  softly,  with  his  drowsy 
head  upon  her  arm  ;  Paul  never  cared.  It  was  Florence. 
That  was  all  he  thought  of.  So,  on  Sunday  nights,  when  the 
doctor's  dark  door  stood  agape  to  swallow  him  up  for 
another  week,  the  time  was  come  for  taking  leave  of  Flor- 
ence ;  no  one  else. 

Mrs.  Wickam  had  been  drafted  home  to  the  house  in  town, 
and  Miss  Nipper,  now  a  smart  young  woman,  had  come 
down.  To  many  a  single  combat  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  did 
Miss  Nipper  gallantly  devote  herself  ;  and  if  ever  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin in  all  her  life  had  found  her  match,  she  had  found  it 
novv^.  Miss  Nipper  threw  away  the  scabbard  the  first  morn- 
ing she  arose  in  Mrs.  Pipchin's  house.  She  asked  and  gave 
no  quarter.  She  said  it  must  be  war,  and  war  it  was  ;  and 
Mrs  Pipchin  lived  from  that  time  in  the  midst  of  surprises, 
harassings,  and  defiances,  and  skirmishing  attacks  that  came 
bouncing  in  upon  her  from  the  passage,  even  in  unguarded 
moments  of  chops,  and  carried  desolation  to  her  very 
toast. 

Miss  Nipper  had  returned  one  Sunday  night  with  Florence 
from  walking  back  with  Paul  to  the  doctor's  when  Florence 
took  from  her  bosom  a  little  piece  of  paper,  on  which  she 
had  penciled  down  some  words. 

"  See  here,  Susan,"  she  said.  ''  These  are  the  names  of 
the  little  books  that  Paul  brings  home  to  do  those  long  exer- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  173 

cises  with,  when  he  is  so  tired.     I  copied   them  last  night 
while  he  was  writing." 

"  Don't  show  'em  to  me,  Miss  Floy,  if  you  please,"  returned 
Nipper  ;  "  I'd  as  soon  see  Mrs.  Pipchin." 

"  I  want  you  to  buy  them  for  me,  Susan,  if  you  will,  to- 
morrow morning.     I  have  money  enough,"  said  Florence. 

"Why,  goodness  gracious  me.  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss 
Nipper,  "  how  can  you  talk  like  that,  when  you  have  books 
upon  books  already,  and  masterses  and  missesses  a-teaching 
of  you  every  thing  contmual,  though  my  belief  is  that  your 
pa.  Miss  Dombey,  never  would  have  learned  you  nothing, 
never  would  have  thought  of  it,  unless  you'd  asked  him — 
when  he  couldn't  well  refuse  ;  but  giving  consent  when 
asked,  and  offering  when  unasked,  miss,  is  quite  two  things  ; 
I  may  not  have  my  objections  to  a  young  man's  keeping 
company  with  me,  and  when  he  puts  the  question,  may  say 
*  Yes,'  but  that's  not  saying  '  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  like 
me.'" 

"  But  you  can  buy  me  the  books,  Susan  ;  and  you  will, 
when  you  know  I  want  them." 

"  Well,  miss,  and  why  do  you  want  'em  ?  "  replied  Nip- 
per ;  adding,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  If  it  was  to  fling  at  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  head,  I'd  buy  a  cart-load." 

"  I  think  I  could  perhaps  give  Paul  some  help,  Susan,  if  I 
had  these  books,"  said  Florence,  "  and  make-  the  coming 
week  a  little  easier  to  him.  At  least  I  want  to  try.  So  buy 
them  for  me,  dear,  and  I  will  never  forget  how  kind  it  was 
of  you  to  do  it  !  " 

It  must  have  been  a  harder  heart  than  Susan  Nipper's 
that  could  have  rejected  the  little  purse  Florence  held  out 
with  these  words,  or  the  gentle  look  of  entreaty  with  which 
she  seconded  her  petition.  Susan  put  the  purse  in  her 
pocket  without  reply,  and  trotted  out  at  once  upon  her  errand. 

The  books  were  not  easy  to  procure  ;  and  the  answer  at 
several  shops  was,  either  that  they  were  j  ust  out  of  them,  or  that 
they  never  kept  them,  or  that  they  had  had  a  great  many  last 
month,  or  that  they  expected  a  great  many  next  week.  But 
Susan  was  not  easily  baffled  in  such  an  enterprise  ;  and  having 
entrapped  a  white  haired  youth,  in  a  black  calico  apron,  from  a 
library  where  she  was  known,  to  accompany  her  in  her  quest, 
she  led  him  such  a  life  in  going  up  and  down,  that  he  exerted 
himself  to  the  utmost,  if  it  were  only  to  get  rid  of  her  •  ari4 
finally  enabled  her  to  return  home  in  triumph. 


174  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

With  these  treasures  then,  after  her  own  daily  lessons 
were  over,  Florence  sat  down  at  night  to  track  Paul's  foot- 
steps through  the  thorny  ways  of  learning  ;  and  being  pos- 
sessed of  a  naturally  quick  and  sound  capacity,  and  taught 
by  that  most  wonderful  of  masters,  love,  it  was  not  long 
before  she  gained  upon  Paul's  heels,  and  caught  and  passed 
him. 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  breathed  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  but 
many  a  night  when  they  were  all  in  bed,  and  when  Miss 
Nipper,  with  her  hair  in  papers  and  herself  asleep  in  some 
uncomfortable  attitude,  reposed  unconscious  by  her  side  ; 
and  when  the  chinking  ashes  in  the  grate  were  cold  and 
gray  ;  and  when  the  candles  were  burned  down  and  guttering 
out — Florence  tried  so  hard  to  be  a  substitute  for  one  small 
Dombey,  that  her  fortitude  and  perseverance  might  have 
almost  won  her  a  free  right  to  bear  the  name  herself. 

And  high  was  her  reward,  when  one  Saturday  evening,  as 
little  Paul  was  sitting  down  as  usual  to  "  resume  his  studies," 
she  sat  down  by  his  side,  and  showed  him  all  that  was  rough, 
made  smooth,  and  all  that  was  so  dark,  made  clear  and 
plain,  before  him.  It  was  nothing  but  a  startled  look  in 
Paul's  wan  face— a  flush— a  smile — and  then  a  close  embrace 
— but  God  knows  how  her  heart  leaped  up  at  this  rich  pay- 
ment for  her  trouble. 

"  Oh,  Floy  !  "  cried  her  brother,  "  how  I  love  you  !  How 
I  love  you,  Floy  !  " 

"  And  I  you,  dear  !  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  sure,  sure  of  that,  Floy." 

He  said  no  more  about  it,  but  all  that  evening  sat  close  by 
her,  very  quiet  ;  and  in  the  night  he  called  out  from  his  little 
room  within  hers,  three  or  four  times,  that  he  loved  her. 

Regularly,  after  that,  Florence  was  prepared  to  sit  down 
with  Paul  on  Saturday  night,  and  patiently  assist  him 
through  so  much  as  they  could  anticipate  together  of  his 
next  week's  work.  The  cheering  thought  that  he  was  laboring 
on  where  Florence  had  just  toiled  before  him  would  of  itself 
have  been  a  stimulant  to  Paul  in  the  perpetual  resumption 
of  his  studies  ;  but  coupled  with  the  actual  lightening  of  his 
load,  consequent  on  this  assistance,  it  saved  him,  possibly, 
from  sinking  underneath  the  burden  which  the  fair  Cornelia 
Blimber  piled  upon  his  back. 

It  was  not  that  Miss  Blimber  meant  to  be  Ipo  hard  upon 
him,  or  that  Doctor  Blimber  meant  to  bear  too  heavily  on 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  175 

the  young  gentlemen  in  general.  Cornelia  merely  held  the 
faith  in  which  she  had  been  bred  ;  and  the  doctor,  in  some 
partial  confusion  of  his  ideas,  regarded  the  young  gentlemen 
as  if  they  were  all  doctors,  and  were  born  grown  up.  Com- 
forted by  the  applause  of  the  young  gentlemen's  nearest 
relations,  and  urged  on  by  their  blind  vanity  and  ill-con- 
sidered haste,  it  would  have  been  strange  if  Doctor  Blimber 
had  discovered  his  mistake,  or  trimmed  his  swelling  sails  to 
any  other  tack. 

Thus  in  the  case  of  Paul.  When  Doctor  Blimber  said  he 
made  great  progress,  and  was  naturally  clever,  Mr.  Dombey 
was  more  bent  than  ever  on  his  being  forced  and  crammed. 
In  the  case  of  Briggs,  when  Doctor  Blimber  reported 
that  he  did  not  make  great  progress  yet,  and  was  not  natur- 
ally clever,  Briggs  senior  was  inexorable  in  the  same  pur- 
pose. In  short,  however  high  and  false  the  temperature  at 
which  the  doctor  kept^  his  hot-house,  the  owners  of  the 
plants  were  always  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand  at  the  bel- 
lows, and  to  stir  the  fire. 

Such  spirits  as  he  had  in  the  outset  Paul  soon  lost,  of 
course.  But  he  retained  all  that  was  strange,  and  old,  and 
thoughtful  in  his  character  :  and  under  circumstances  so 
favorable  to  the  development  of  those  tendencies,  became 
even  more  strange,  and  old,  and  thoughtful,  than  before. 

The  only  difference  was,  that  he  kept  his  character  to 
himself.  He  grew  more  thoughtful  and  reserved  every  day  ; 
and  had  no  such  curiosity  in  any  living  member  of  the  doc- 
tor's household  as  he  had  had  in  Mrs.  Pipchin.  He  loved 
to  be  alone  ;  and  in  those  short  intervals  when  he  was  not 
occupied  with  his  books,  liked  nothing  so  well  as  wandering 
about  the  house  by  himself,  or  sitting  on  the  stairs  listening 
to  the  great  clock  in  the  hall.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the 
paper-hanging  in  the  house  ;  saw  things  that  no  one  else  saw 
in  the  patterns  ;  found  out  miniature  tigers  and  lions  running 
up  the  bedroom  walls,  and  squinting  faces  leering  in  the 
squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth. 

The  solitary  child  lived  on,  surrounded  by  this  arabesque 
work  of  his  musing  fancy,  and  no  one  understood  him.  Mrs. 
Blimber  thought  him  "  odd,"  and  sometimes  the  servants 
said  among  themselves  that  little  Dombey  "  moped  ;  "  but 
that  was  all. 

Unless  young  Toots  had  some  idea  on  the  subject,  to  the 
expression  of  which  he  was    wholly  unequal.      Ideas,  like 


lyd  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

ghosts  (according  to  the  common  notion  of  ghosts),  must  be 
spoken  to  a  little  before  they  will  explain  themselves;  and 
Toots  had  long  left  off  asking  any  questions  of  his  own  mind. 
Some  mist  there  may  have  been,  issuing  from  that  leaden 
casket,  his  cranium,  which,  if  it  could  have  taken  shape  and 
form,  would  have  become  a  genie  ;  but  it  could  not  ;  and  it 
only  so  far  followed  the  example  of  the  smoke  in  the  Arabian 
story  as  to  roll  out  in  a  thick  cloud,  and  there  hang  and 
hover.  But  it  left  a  little  figure  visible  upon  a  lonely  shore, 
and  Toots  was  always  staring  at  it. 

"  How  are  you  ? "    he  would  say  to  Paul,  fifty  times  a  day. 

*  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you,"  Paul  would  answer. 

"  Shake  hands,"  would  be  Toots's  next  advance. 

Which  Paul,  of  course,  would  immediately  do.  Mr.  Toots 
generally  said  again,  after  a  long  interval  of  staring  and  hard 
breathing,  "  How  are  you  ? "  To  which  Paul  again  replied, 
"  Quite  well,  sir,  thank  you." 

One  evening  Mr.  Toots  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  oppressed 
by  correspondence,  when  a  great  purpose  seemed  to  flash 
upon  him.  He  laid  down  his  pen  and  went  off  to  seek  Paul, 
whom  he  had  found  at  last,  after  a  long  search,  looking 
through  the  window  of  his  little  bedroom. 

"  I  say  !  "  cried  Toots,  speaking  the  moment  he  entered 
the  room,  lest  he  should  forget  it ;  "  what  do  you  think 
about  ? " 

"  Oh  !  I  think  about  a  great  many  things,"  replied  Paul. 

"  Do  you,  though  ? "  said  Toots,  appearing  to  consider 
that  fact  in  itself  surprising. 

"  If  you  had  to  die,"  said  Paul,  looking  up  into  his  face — 

Mr.  Toots  started,  and  seemed  much  disturbed. 

" — Don't  you  think  that  you  would  rather  die  on  a  moon- 
light night  when  the  sky  was  quite  clear,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing as  it  did  last  night  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  said,  looking  doubtfully  at  Paul,  and  shaking  his 
head,  that  he  didn't  know  about  that. 

"  Not  blowing,  at  least,"  said  Paul,  ''  but  sounding  in  the 
air  like  the  sea  sounds  in  the  shells.  It  was  a  beautiful 
night.  When  I  had  listened  to  the  water  for  a  long  time,  I 
got  up  and  looked  out.  There  was  a  boat  over  there,  in  the 
full  light  of  the  moon  ;  a  boat  with  a  sail." 

The  child  looked  at  him  so  steadfastly,  and  spoke  so  ear- 
nestly, that  Mr.  Toots,  feeling  himself  called  upon  to  say 
something  about  this  boat,  said,   "  Smugglers."     But  with  an 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  177 

impartial  remembrance  of  their  being  two  sides  to  every  ques- 
tion, he  added,  "  or  Preventive." 

"  A  boat  with  a  sail,"  repeated  Paul,  ''  in  the  full  light  of 
the  moon.  The  sail  like  an  arm,  all  silver.  It  went  away 
into  the  distance  and  what  do  you  think  it  seemed  to  do  as  it 
moved  with  the  waves  ?  " 

"  Pitch,"  said  Mr.   Toots. 

"  It  seemed  to  beckon,"  said  the  child,  "  to  beckon  me  to 
come  ! — There  she  is  !     There  she  is  !  " 

Toots  was  almost  beside  himself  with  dismay  at  this  sud- 
den exclamation,  after  what  had  gone  before,  and  cried 
**Who?" 

"  My  sister  Florence  !  "  cried  Paul,  "  looking  up  here,  and 
waving  her  hand.  She  sees  me — she  sees  me  !  Good  night, 
dear,  good  night,  good  night." 

His  quick  transition  to  a  state  of  unbounded  pleasure,  as 
he  stood  at  his  window,  kissing  and  clapping  his  hands  ;  and 
the  way  in  which  the  light  retreated  from  his  features  as  she 
passed  out  of  his  view,  and  left  a  patient  melancholy  on  the 
little  face;  were  too  remarkable  wholly  to  escape  even  Toots's 
notice.  Their  interview  being  interrupted  at  this  moment  by 
a  visit  from  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  usually  brought  her  black 
skirts  to  bear  upon  Paul  just  before  dusk,  once  or  twice  a 
week,  Toots  had  no  opportunity  of  improving  the  occasion  ; 
but  it  left  so  marked  an  impression  on  his  mind  that  he  twice 
returned,  after  having  exchanged  the  usual  salutations,  to  ask 
Mrs.  Pipchin  how  she  did.  This  the  irascible  old  lady  con- 
ceived to  be  a  deeply-devised  and  long-meditated  insult,  orig- 
inating in  the  diabolical  invention  of  the  weak-eyed  young 
man  down  stairs,  against  whom  she  accordingly  lodged  a  for- 
mal complaint  with  Doctor  Blimber  that  very  night  ;  who 
mentioned  to  the  young  man  that  if  he  ever  did  it  again,  he 
would  be  obliged  to  part  with  him. 

The  evenings  being  longer  now,  Paul  stole  up  to  his  win- 
dow every  evening  to  look  out  for  Florence.  She  always 
passed  and  repassed  at  a  certain  time,  until  she  saw  him  ; 
and  their  mutual  recognition  was  a  gleam  of  sunshine  in 
Paul's  daily  life.  Often  after  dark,  one  other  figure  walked 
alone  before  the  doctor's  house.  He  rarely  joined  them  on 
the  Saturday  now.  He  could  not  bear  it.  He  would  rather 
come  unrecognized,  and  look  up  at  the  windows  where  his 
son  was  qualifying  for  a  man ;  and  wait,  and  watch,  and  plan, 
and  hope. 


178  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Oh!  could  he  but  have  seen,  or  seen  as  others  did,  the  sHght 
spare  boy  above,  watching  the  waves  and  clouds  at  twilight, 
with  his  earnest  eyes,  and  breasting  the  window  of  his  solitary 
cage  when  birds  flew  by,  as  if  he  would  have  emulated  them, 
and  soared  away! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

SHIPPING    INTELLIGENCE    AND    OFFICE    BUSINESS. 

Mr.  Dombey's  offices  were  in  a  court  where  there  was  an 
old-established  stall  of  choice  fruit  at  the  corner;  where 
perambulating  merchants  of  both  sexes  offered  for  sale,  at 
any  time  between  the  hours  of  ten  and  five,  slippers,  pocket- 
books,  sponges,  dogs'  collars,  and  Windsor  soap,  and  some- 
times a  pointer  or  an  oil-painting. 

The  pointer  always  came  that  way,  with  a  view  to  the 
Stock  Exchange,  where  a  sporting  taste  (originating  generally 
in  bets  of  new  hats)  is  much  in  vogue.  The  other  commodi- 
ties were  addressed  to  the  general  public  ;  but  they  were 
never  offered  by  the  venders  to  Mr.  Dombey.  When  he 
appeared,  the  dealers  in  those  wares  fell  off  respectfully. 
The  principal  slipper  and  dogs'  collar  man — who  considered 
himself  a  public  character,  and  whose  portrait  was  screwed 
on  to  an  artist's  door  in  Cheapside — threw  up  his  forefinger 
to  the  brim  of  his  hat  as  Mr.  Dombey  went  by.  The 
ticket-porter,  if  he  were  not  absent  on  a  job,  always  ran 
officiously  before  to  open  Mr.  Dombey's  office  door  as  wide 
as  possible,  and  hold  it  open,  with  his  hat  off,  while  he 
entered. 

The  clerks  within  were  not  a  whit  behindhand  in  these 
demonstrations  of  respect.  A  solemn  hush  prevailed  as 
Mr.  Dombey  passed  through  the  outer  office.  The  wit  of 
the  counting-house  became  in  a  moment  as  mute  as  the  row 
of  leathern  fire  buckets  hanging  up  behind  him.  Such  vapid 
and  flat  day-light  as  filtered  through  the  ground-glass 
windows  and  sky-lights,  leaving  a  black  sediment  upon  the 
panes,  showed  the  books  and  papers,  and  the  figures  bend- 
ing over  them,  enveloped  in  a  studious  gloom,  and  as  much 
abstracted  in  appearance,  from  the  world  without,  as  if  they 
were  assembled  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  ;  while  a  moldy 
little  strong  room  in  the  obscure  perspective,  where  a  shady 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  179 

lamp  was  always  burning,  might  have  represented  the  cavern 
of  some  ocean-monster,  looking  on  with  a  red  eye  at  these 
mysteries  of  the  deep. 

When  Perch  the  messenger,  whose  place  was  on  a  little 
bracket,  like  a  time-piece,  saw  Mr.  Dombey  come  in — or 
rather  when  he  felt  that  he  was  coming,  for  he  had  usually 
an  instinctive  sense  of  his  approach — he  hurried  into  Mr. 
Dombey's  room,  stirred  the  fire,  quarried  fresh  coals  from 
the  bowels  of  the  coal-box,  hung  the  newspaper  to  air  upon 
the  fender,  put  the  chair  ready,  and  the  screen  in  its  place, 
and  was  round  upon  his  heel  on  the  instant  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
entrance,  to  take  his  great-coat  and  hat,  and  hang  them  up. 
Then  Perch  took  the  newspaper,  and  gave  it  a  turn  or  two  in 
his  hands  before  the  fire,  and  laid  it,  deferentially,  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  elbow.  And  so  little  objection  had  Perch  to 
doing  deferential  in  the  last  degree,  that  if  he  might  have 
laid  himself  at  Mr.  Dombey's  feet,  or  might  have  called 
him  by  some  such  title  as  used  to  be  bestowed  upon  the 
Caliph  Haroun  Alraschid,  he  would  have  been  all  the  better 
pleased. 

As  this  honor  would  have  been  an  innovation  and  an  ex- 
periment. Perch  was  fain  to  content  himself  by  expressing  as 
well  as  he  could,  in  his  manner.  You  are  the  light  of  my 
Eyes.  You  are  the  Breath  of  my  Soul.  You  are  the  com- 
mander of  the  Faithful  Perch!  With  this  imperfect  happi- 
ness to  cheer  him,  he  would  shut  the  door  softly,  walk  away 
on  tiptoe,  and  leave  his  great  chief  to  be  stared  at,  through 
a  dome-shaped  window  in  the  leads,  by  ugly  chimney-pots 
and  backs  of  houses,  and  especially  by  the  bold  window  of  a 
hair-cutting  saloon  on  a  first  floor,  where  a  waxen  effigy,  bald 
as  a  Mussulman  in  the  morning,  and  covered  after  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  day  with  luxuriant  hair  and  whiskers  in  the 
latest  Christian  fashion,  showed  him  the  wrong  side  of  its 
head  forever. 

Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  common  world,  as  it  was 
accessible  through  the  medium  of  the  outer  office — to  which 
Mr.  Dombey's  presence  in  his  own  room  may  be  said  to 
have  struck  like  damp,  or  cold  air — there  were  two  degrees 
of  descent.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  own  office,  was  the  first  step; 
Mr.  Morfin,  in  his  own  office,  was  the  second.  Each  of 
these  gentlemen  occupied  a  little  chamber  like  a  bath-room, 
opening  from  the  passage  outside  Mr.  Dombey's  door.  Mr. 
Carker,  as  Grand  Vizier,  inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest 


i8o  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

to  the    Sultan.     Mr.   Morfin,    as  an  officer  of   inferior  state, 
inhabited  the  room  that  was  nearest  to  the  clerks. 

The  gentleman  last  mentioned  was  a  cheerful-looking, 
hazel-eyed  elderly  bachelor  :  gravely  attired,  as  to  his  upper 
man,  in  black;  and  as  to  his  legs,  in  pepper-and-salt  colors. 
His  dark  hair  was  just  touched  here  and  there  with  specks  of 
gray,  as  though  the  tread  of  Time  had  splashed  it;  and  his 
whiskers  were  already  white.  He  had  a  mighty  respect  for 
Mr.  Dombey,  and  rendered  him  due  homage  ;  but  as  he 
was  of  a  genial  temper  himself,  and  never  wholly  at 
his  ease  in  that  stately  presence,  he  was  disquieted  by  no 
jealousy  of  the  many  conferences  enjoyed  by  Mr.  Carker, 
and  felt  a  secret  satisfaction  in  having  duties  to  discharge 
which  rarely  exposed  him  to  be  singled  out  for  such  distinc- 
tion. He  was  a  great  musical  amateur  in  his  way — after 
business ;  and  had  a  paternal  affection  for  his  violoncello,  which 
was  once  in  every  week  transported  from  Islington,  his  place 
of  abode,  to  a  certain  club-room  hard  by  the  bank,  where 
quartettes  of  the  most  tormenting  and  excruciating  nature 
were  executed  every  Wednesday  evening  by  a  private  party. 

Mr.  Carker  was  a  gentleman  thirty-eight  or  forty  years 
old,  of  a  florid  complexion,  and  with  two  unbroken  rows  of 
glistening  teeth,  whose  regularity  and  whiteness  were  quite 
distressing.  It  was  impossible  to  escape  the  observation  of 
them,  for  he  showed  them  whenever  he  spoke  ;  and  bore  so 
wide  a  smile  upon  his  countenance  (a  smile,  however,  very 
rarely  indeed  extending  beyond  his  mouth),  that  there  was 
something  in  it  like  the  snarl  of  a  cat.  He  affected  a  stiff 
white  cravat,  after  the  example  of  his  principal,  and  was 
always  closely  buttoned  up  and  tightly  dressed.  His 
manner  toward  Mr.  Dombey  was  deeply  conceived  and 
perfectly  expressed.  He  was  familiar  with  him,  in  the 
very  extremity  of  his  sense  of  the  distance  between 
them.  '^  Mr.  Dombey,  to  a  man  in  your  position  from  a 
man  in  mine,  there  is  no  show  of  subservience  compatible 
with  the  transaction  of  business  between  us,  that  I  should 
think  sufficient.  I  frankly  tell  you,  sir,  I  give  it  up  altogether. 
I  feel  that  I  could  not  satisfy  my  own  mind;  and  Heaven 
knows,  Mr.  Dombey,  you  can  afford  to  dispense  with  the 
endeavor."  If  he  had  carried  these  words  about  with  him, 
printed  on  a  placard,  and  had  constantly  offered  it  to  Mr. 
Dombey' s  perusal  on  the  breast  of  his  coat,  he  could  not 
have  been  more  explicit  than  he  was. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  i8r 

This  was  Carker  the  Manager.  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior, 
Walter's  friend,  was  his  brother;  two  or  three  years  older 
than  he,  but  widely  removed  in  station.  The  younger 
brother's  post  was  on  the  top  of  the  official  ladder;  the  elder 
brother's  at  the  bottom.  The  elder  never  gained  a  stave,  or 
raised  his  foot  to  mount  one.  Young  men  passed  above  his 
head,  and  rose  and  rose;  but  he  was  always  at  the  bottom. 
He  was  quite  resigned  to  occupy  that  low  condition  :  never 
complained  of  it  :  and  certainly  never  hoped  to  escape  from  it. 

"How  do  you  do  this  morning?"  said  Mr.  Carker  the 
Manager,  entering  Mr.  Dombey's  room  soon  after  his 
arrival  one  day,  with  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Carker  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising 
from  his  chair,  and  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire. 
"  Have  you.  any  thing  there  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  need  trouble  you,"  returned  Carker, 
turning  over  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "  You  have  a  committee 
to-day  at  three,  you  know." 

"  And  one  at  three,  three-quarters,"  added  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Catch  you  forgetting  any  thing  !  "  exclaimed  Carker,  still 
turning  over  his  papers.  "  If  Mr.  Paul  inherits  your  memory^, 
he'll  be  a  troublesome  customer  in  the  house.  One  of  you  is 
enough." 

"  You  have  an  accurate  memory  of  your  own,"  said  Mr. 
Dombev. 

"  Oh'!  /;  "  returned  the  manager.  "  It's  the  only  capital 
of  a  man  like  me." 

Mr.  Dombey  did  not  look  less  pompous  or  at  all  displeased 
as  he  stood  leaning  against  the  chimney-piece  surveying  his 
(of  course  unconscious)  clerk  from  head  to  foot.  The  stiff- 
ness and  nicety  of  Mr.  Carker's  dress,  and  a  certain  arro- 
gance of  manner,  either  natural  to  him  or  imitated  from  a  pat- 
tern not  far  off,  gave  great  additional  effect  to  his  humility. 

"  Is  Morfin  here  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  after  a  short  pause, 
during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  been  fluttering  his  papers,  and 
muttering  little  abstracts  of  their  contents  to  himself. 

•'  Morfin' s  here,"  he  answered,  looking  up  with  his  widest 
and  most  sudden  smile  ;  "  humming  musical  recollections — 
of  his  last  night's  quartette  party,  I  suppose— through  the 
walls  between  us,  and  driving  me  half  mad.  I  wish  he'd 
make  a  bonfire  of  his  violoncello,  and  burn  his  music-books 

in  it." 

''  You  respect  nobody,  Carker,  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 


i82  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  No?"  inquired  Carker,  with  another  wide  and  most 
feline  show  of  his  teeth.  '^  Well  !  Not  many  people,  I 
believe.  I  wouldn't  answer,  perhaps,"  he  murmured,  as  if  he 
were  only  thinking  it,  *'  for  more  than  one." 

A  dangerous  quality,  if  real  ;  and  a  not  less  dangerous  one, 
if  feigned.  But  Mr.  Dombey  hardly  seemed  to  think  so,  as 
he  still  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  drawn  up  to  his  full 
height,  and  looking  at  his  head-clerk  with  a  dignified  com- 
posure, in  which  there  seemed  to  lurk  a  stronger  latent  sense 
of  power  than  usual. 

"  Talking  of  Morfin,"  resumed  Mr.  Carker,  taking  out  one 
paper  from  the  rest,  "  he  reports  a  junior  dead  in  the  agency 
at  Barbados,  and  proposes  to  reserve  a  passage  in  the  Son 
and  Heir — she'll  sail  in  a  month  or  so — for  the  successor. 
You  don't  care  who  goes,  I  suppose  ?  We  have  nobody  of 
that  sort  here." 

Mr.  Dombey  shook  his  head  with  supreme  indifference. 

"  It's  no  very  precious  appointment,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
taking  up  a  pen,  with  which  to  indorse  a  memorandum  on 
the  back  of  the  paper.  "  I  hope  he  may  bestow  it  on  some 
orphan  nephew  of  a  musical  friend.  It  may  perhaps  stop 
his  fiddle-playing,  if  he  has  a  gift  that  way.  Who's  that? 
Come  in  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Carker.  I  didn't  know  you  were 
here,  sir,"  answered  Walter,  appearing  with  some  letters  in 
his  hand,  unopened,  and  newly  arrived.  "  Mr.  Carker  the 
Junior,  sir — " 

At  the  mention  of  this  name,  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager 
was,  or  affected  to  be,  touched  to  the  quick  with  shame  and 
humiliation.  He  cast  his  eyes  full  on  Mr.  Dombey  with  an 
altered  and  apologetic  look,  abased  them  on  the  ground,  and 
remained  for  a  moment  without  speaking. 

"  I  thought,  sir,"  he  said,  suddenly  and  angrily,  turning  on 
Walter,  "  that  you  had  been  before  requested  not  to  drag 
Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  into  your  conversation." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  returned  Walter,  "  I  was  only 
going  to  say  that  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  had  told  me  he 
believed  you  were  gone  out,  or  I  should  not  have  knocked  at 
the  door  when  you  were  engaged  with  Mr.  Dombey.  These 
are  letters  for  Mr.  Dombey,  sir." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  pluck- 
ing them  sharply  from  his  hand.     "  Go  about  your  business." 

But  in  taking  them  with  so  little   ceremony,   Mr.  Carker 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  183 

dropped  one  on  the  floor,  and  did  not  see  what  he  had  done  ; 
neither  did  Mr.  Dombey  observe  the  letter  lying  near  his  feet. 
Walter  hesitated  for  a  moment,  thinking  that  one  or  other  of 
them  would  notice  it  ;  but  finding  that  neither  did,  he  stopped, 
came  back,  picked  it  up,  and  laid  it  himself  on  Mr. 
Dombey's  desk.  The  letters  were  post-lttters  ;  and  it  hap- 
pened that  the  one  in  question  was  Mrs.  Pipchin's  regular 
report,  directed  as  usual — for  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  but  an  indif- 
ferent pen-woman — by  Florence.  Mr.  Dombey,  having  his 
attention  silently  called  to  his  letter  by  Walter,  started,  and 
looked  fiercely  at  him,  as  if  he  believed  that  he  had  purposely 
selected  it  from  all  the  rest. 

"  You  can  leave  the  room,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Dombev,  haught- 
ily. 

He  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand  ;  and  having  watched 
Walter  out  at  the  door,  put  it  in  his  pocket  without  breaking 
the  seal. 

"  You  want  somebody  to  send  to  the  West  Indies,  you 
were  saying,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey,  hurriedly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Carker. 

"  Send  young  Gay." 

"  Good,  very  good  indeed.  Nothing  easier,"  said  Mr. 
Carker,  without  any  show  of  surprise,  and  taking  up  the  pen 
to  re-indorse  the  letter,  as  coolly  as  he  had  done  before. 
"  Send  voung  Gav." 

"  Call  him  back,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  was  quick  to  do  so,  and  Walter  was  quick  to 
return. 

"  Gay,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  a  little  to  look  at  him 
over  his  shoulder.     "  Here  is  a — " 

"  An  opening,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  stretched 
to  the  utmost. 

"  In  the  West  Indies.  At  Barbados.  I  am  going  to  send 
you,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  scorning  to  embellish  the  bare 
truth,  "  to  fill  a  junior  situation  in  the  counting-house  at 
Barbados.  Let  yoiir  uncle  know  from  me  that  I  have  chosen 
you  to  go  to  the  West  Indies." 

Walter's  breath  was  so  completely  taken  away  by  his  aston- 
ishment, that  he  could  hardly  find  enough  for  the  repetition 
of  the  words  "  West  Indies." 

"  Somebody  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  and  you  are 
young  and  healthy,  and  your  uncle's  circumstances  are  not 
good,     Tell  your  uncle   that  you  are  appointed,     You  will 


i84  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

not  go  yet.     There  will  be  an  interval  of  a  month — or  two, 
perhaps." 

"  Shall  I  remain  there,  sir?  "  inquired  Walter. 

"  Will  you  remain  there,  sir  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey, 
turning  a  little  more  round  toward  him.  "  What  do  you 
mean  ?     What  does  he  mean,  Carker  ?  " 

"  Live  there,  sir,"  faltered  Walter. 

"Certainly,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey. 

Walter  bowed. 

"  That's  all,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  his  letters. 
"  You  will  explain  to  him  in  good  time  about  the  usual  outfit, 
and  so  forth,  Carker,  of  course.     He  needn't  wait,  Carker." 

"  You  needn't  wait,  Gay,"  observed  Mr.  Carker,  bare  to 
the  gums. 

*'  Unless,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  in  his  reading 
without  looking  off  the  letter,  and  seeming  to  listen. 
"Unless  he  has  any  thing  to  say." 

"  No,  sir,"  returned  Walter,  agitated  and  confused,  and 
almost  stunned,  as  an  infinite"  variety  of  pictures  presented 
themselves  to  his  mind  ;  among  which  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his 
glazed  hat,  transfixed  with  astonishment  at  Mrs.  MacSting- 
er's,  and  his  uncle  bemoaning  his  loss  in  the  little  back  parlor, 
held  prominent  places.  "  I  hardly  know — I — I  am  much 
obliged,  sir." 

"  He  needn't  wait,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

And  as  Mr.  Carker  again  echoed  the  words,  and  also  col- 
lected his  papers  as  if  he  were  going  away  too,  Walter  felt 
that  his  lingering  any  longer  would  be  an  unpardonable 
intrusion — especially  as  he  had  nothing  to  say — and  there- 
fore walked  out  quite  confounded. 

Going  along  the  passage,  with  the  mingled  consciousness 
and  helplessness  of  a  dream,  he  heard  Mr.  Dombey' s  door 
shut  again  as  Mr.  Carker  came  out  ;  and  immediately  after- 
ward that  gentlemen  called  to  him. 

"  Bring  your  friend  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  to  my  room, 
sir,  if  you  please." 

Walter  went  to  the  outer  office  and  apprised  Mr.  Carker 
the  Junior  of  his  errand,  who  accordingly  came  out  from 
behind  a  partition  where  he  sat  alone  in  one  corner,  and 
returned  with  him  to  the  room  of  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager. 

That  gentleman  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and 
his  hands  under  his  coat-tails,  looking  over  his  white  cravat 
^s  unpromisingly  as  Mr,  Dombey  himself  could  have  looked, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  185 

He  received  them  without  any  change  in  his  attitude  or  soft- 
ening of  his  harsh  and  black  expression:  merely  signing  to 
Walter  to  close  the  door. 

"  John  Carker,"  said  the  manager,  when  this  was  done, 
turning  suddenly  upon  his  brother,  with  his. two  rows  of  teeth 
bristling  as  if  he  would  have  bitten  him,  ''  what  is  the  league 
between  you  and  this  young  man,  in  virtue  of  which  I  am 
haunted  and  hunted  by  the  mention  of  your  name  ?  Is  it 
not  enough  for  you,  John  Carker,  that  I  am  your  near  rela- 
tion, and  can't  detach  myself  from  that — " 

"  Say  disgrace,  James,"  interposed  the  other  in  a  low 
voice,  finding  that  he  stammered  for  a  word.  "  You  mean 
it,  and  have  reason,  say  disgrace." 

"  From  that  disgrace,"  assented  his  brother  with  keen 
emphasis  ;  "  but  is  the  fact  to  be  blurted  out  and  trumpeted, 
and  proclaimed  continually  in  the  presence  of  the  very 
House  !  In  moments  of  confidence  too  ?  Do  you  think 
your  name  is  calculated  to  harmonize  in  this  place  with  trust 
and  confidence,  John  Carker  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  the  other.  "  No,  James.  God  knows  I 
have  no  such  thought." 

"  What  is  your  thought,  then  ?  "  said  his  brother,  "and  why 
do  you  thrust  yourself  in  my  way?  Haven't  you  injured  me 
enough  already  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  injured  you,  James,  willfully." 

"  You  are  my  brother,"  said  the  manager.  "  That's 
injury  enough." 

"  I  wish  I  could  undo  it,  James." 

"  I  wish  you  could  and  would." 

During  this  conversation,  Walter  had  looked  from  one 
brother  to  the  other  with  pain  and  amazement.  He  who 
was  the  senior  in  years,  and  junior  in  the  house,  stood,  with 
his  eves  cast  upon  the  ground,  and  his  head  bowed,  humbly 
listening  to  the  reproaches  of  the  other.  Though  these  were 
rendered  very  bitter  by  the  tone  and  look  with  which  they 
were  accompanied,  and  by  the  presence  of  Walter,  whom 
they  so  much  surprised  and  shocked,  he  entered  no  other 
protest  against  them  than  by  slightly  raising  his  right  hand 
in  a  deprecatory  manner,  as  if  he  would  have  said,  "  Spare 
me  !  "  So,  had  they  been  blows,  and  he  a  brave  man,  under 
strong  constraint,  and  weakened  by  bodily  suffering,  he 
might  have  stood  before  the  executioner. 

Generous  and  quick  in  all   his  emotions,   and  regarding 


i86  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

himself  as  the  innocent  occasion  of  these  taunts,  Walter  now 
struck  in,  with  all  the  earnestness  he  felt. 

*'  Mr.  Carker,"  he  said,  addressing  himself  to  the  manager. 
"  Indeed,  indeed,  this  is  my  fault,  solely.  In  a  kind  of  heed- 
lessness, for  which  I  can  not  blame  myself  enough,  I  have,  I 
have  no  doubt,  mentioned  Mr.  Carker  the  Junior  much 
oftener  than  was  necessary  ;  and  have  allowed  his  name 
sometimes  to  slip  through  my  lips,  when  it  was  against  your 
express  wish.  But  it  has  been  my  own  mistake,  sir.  We 
have  never  exchanged  one  word  upon  the  subject — very  few 
indeed,  on  any  subject.  And  it  has  not  been,"  added  Wal- 
ter, after  a  moment's  pause,  *'  all  heedlessness  on  my  part 
sir  ;  for  I  have  felt  an  interest  in  Mr.  Carker  ever  since  I 
have  been  here,  and  have  hardly  been  able  to  help  speaking 
of  him  sometimes,  when  I  have  thought  of  him  so  much  !  " 

Walter  said  this  from  his  soul,  and  with  the  very  breath  of 
honor.  For  he  looked  upon  the  bowed  head,  and  the  down- 
cast eyes,  and  upraised  hand,  and  thought,  "  I  have  felt  it  ; 
and  why  should  I  not  avow  it  m  behalf  of  this  unfriended, 
broken  man  !  " 

"  In  truth,  you  have  avoided  me,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Wal- 
ter, with  the  tears  rising  to  his  eyes  ;  so  true  was  his  compas- 
sion. "  I  know  it,  to  my  disappointment  and  regret.  When 
I  first  came  here,  and  ever  since,  I  am  sure  I  tried  to  be  as 
much  your  friend  as  one  of  my  age  could  presume  to  be  ; 
but  it  has  been  of  no  use." 

"  And  observe,"  said  the  manager,  taking  him  up  quickly, 
"  it  will  be  of  less  use.  Gay,  if  you  persist  in  forcing  Mr.  John 
Carker's  name  on  people's  attention.  That  is  not  the  way  to 
befriend  Mr.  John  Carker.     Ask  him  if  he  thinks  it  is." 

"  It  is  no  service  to  me,"  said  his  brother.  "  It  only  leads 
to  such  a  conversation  as  the  present,  which  I  need  not  say 
I  could  have  well  spared.  No  one  can  be  a  better  friend  to 
me,"  he  spoke  here  very  distinctly,  as  if  he  would  impress  it 
upon  Walter — "  than  in  forgetting  me,  and  leaving  me  to  go 
my  way,  unquestioned  and  unnoticed." 

"  Your  memory  not  being  retentive.  Gay,  of  what  you  are 
told  by  others,"  said  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager,  warming  him- 
self wdth  great  and  increased  satisfaction,  "  I  thought  it  well 
that  you  should  be  told  this  from  the  best  authority,"  nod- 
ding toward  his  brother.  "  You  are  not  likely  to  forget  it 
now,  I  hope.     That's  all.  Gay.     You  can  go." 

Walter  passed  out  at  the  door,  and  was  about  to  close  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  187 

after  him,  when,  hearing  the  voice  of  the  brothers  again,  and 
also  the  mention  of  his  own  name,  he  stood  irresolutely,  with 
his  hand  upon  the  lock,  and  the  door  ajar,  uncertain  whether 
to  return  or  go  away.  In  this  position  he  could  not  help 
overhearing  what  followed. 

"  Think  of  me  more  leniently,  if  you  can,  James,"  said 
John  Carker,  "  when  I  tell  you  I  have  had — how  could  I 
help  having,  with  my  history  written  here" — striking  him- 
self upon  the  breast — "my  whole  heart  awakened  by  my 
observation  of  that  boy,  Walter  Gay.  I  saw  in  him,  when 
he  first  came  here,  almost  my  other  self." 

"  Your  other  self  !  "  repeated  the  manager,  disdainfully. 

"  Not  as  I  am,  but  as  I  was  when  I  first  came  h-^re  too  ; 
as  sanguine,  giddy,  youthful,  inexperienced  ;  flushed  with  the 
same  restless  and  adventurous  fancies  ;  and  full  of  the 
same  qualities,  fraught  with  the  same  capacity  of  leading  on 
to  good  or  evil." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  his  brother,  with  some  hidden  and 
sarcastic  meaning  in  his  tone. 

"  You  strike  me  sharply  ;  and  your  hand  is  steady,  and 
your  thrust  is  very  deep,"  returned  the  other,  speaking  (or  so 
Walter  thought)  as  if  some  cruel  weapon  actually  stabbed 
him  as  he  spoke.  "  I  imagined  all  this  when  he  was  a  boy, 
I  believed  it.  It  was  a  truth  to  me.  I  saw  him  lightly  walk- 
ing on  the  edge  of  an  unseen  gulf  where  so  many  others  walk 
with  equal  gayety,  and  from  which — " 

"  The  old  excuse,"  interrupted  his  brother,  as  he  stirred 
the  fire.     "  So  many.     Go  on.     Say,  so  many  fall." 

"  From  which  one  traveler  fell,"  returned  the  other,  "  who 
set  forward  on  his  way  a  boy  like  him,  and  missed  his  foot- 
ing more  and  more,  and  slipped  a  little  and  a  little  lower, 
and  went  on  stumbling  still,  until  he  fell  headlong,  and  found 
himself  below,  a  shattered  man.  Think  what  I  suffered 
when  I  watched  that  boy." 

"  You  have  only  yourself  to  thank  for  it,"  returned  the 
brother. 

"  Only  myself,"  he  assented,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  don't  seek 
to  divide  the  blame  or  shame." 

"  You  have  divided  the  shame,"  James  Carker  muttered 
through  his  teeth.  And  through  so  many  and  such  close 
teeth  he  could  mutter  well. 

"Ah,  James,"  returned  his  brother,  speaking  for  the  first 
time  in  an  accent  of  reproach,  and  seeming,  by  the  sound  of 


i88  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

his  voice,  to  have  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  "  I  have 
been,  since  then,  a  useful  foil  to  you.  You  have  trodden  on 
me  freely  in  your  climbing  up.  Do'n't  spurn  me  with  your 
heel  !  " 

A  silence  ensued.  After  a  time,  Mr.  Carker  the  Manager 
was  heard  rustling  among  his  papers,  as  if  he  had  resolved 
to  bring  the  interview  to  a  conclusion.  At  the  same  time 
his  brother  withdrew  nearer  to  the  door. 

"  That's  all,"  he  said.  "  I  watched  him  with  such  trem- 
bling and  such  fear,  as  was  some  ittle  punishment  to  me, 
until  he  passed  the  place  where  I  first  fell  ;  and  then,  though 
I  had  been  his  father,  I  believe  I  never  could  have  thanked 
God  more  devoutly.  I  didn't  dare  to  warn  him  and  advise 
him  ;  but  if  I  had  seen  direct  cause,  I  would  have  shown  him 
my  example.  I  was  afraid  to  be  seen  speaking  with  him, 
lest  it  should  be  thought  I  did  him  harm,  and  tempted 
him  to  evil,  and  corrupted  him:  or  lest  I  really  should. 
There  may  be  such  contagion  in  me  ;  I  don't  know. 
.Piece  out  my  history  in  connection  with  young  Walter  Gay, 
and  what  he  has  made  me  feel  ;  and  think  of  me  more 
leniently,  James,  if  you  can." 

With  these  wonds  he  came  out  to  where  Walter  was  stand- 
ing. He  turned  a  little  paler  when  he  saw  him  there,  and 
paler  yet  when  Walter  caught  him  by  the  hand,  and  said,  in 
a  whisper  : 

"  Mr.  Carker,  pray  let  me  thank  you  !  Let  me  say  how 
much  I  feel  for  you  !  How  sorry  I  am  to  have  been  the 
unhappy  cause  of  all  this  !  How  I  "almost  look  upon  you 
now  as  my  protector  and  guardian  !  How  very,  very  much, 
I  feel  obliged  to  you  and  pity  you  !  "  said  Walter,  squeezing 
both  his  hands,  and  hardly  knowing,  in  his  agitation,  what 
he  did  or  said. 

Mr.  Morfin's  room  being  close  at  hand  and  empty,  and 
the  door  wide  open,  they  moved  thither  by  one  accord  :  the 
passage  being  seldom  free  from  some  one  passing  to  or  fro. 
When  they  were  there,  and  Walter  saw  in  Mr.  Carker' s  face 
some  traces  of  the  emotion  within,  he  almost  felt  as  if  he 
had  never  seen  the  face  before  ;  it  was  so  greatly  changed. 

"  Walter,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  I  am 
far  removed  from  you,  and  may  I  ever  be.  Do  you  know 
what  I  am  ?  " 

"  What  you  are  !  "  appeared  to  hang  on  Walter's  lips  as  he 
regarded  him  attentively. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  189 

• 

"  It  was  begun,"  said  Carker,  "  before  my  twenty-first 
birthday— led  up  to,  long  before,  but  not  begun  till  near  that 
time,  i  had  robbed  them  when  I  came  of  age.  I  robbed 
them  afterward.  Before  my  twenty-second  birthday,  it  was 
all  found  out  ;  and  then,  Walter,  from  all  men's  society,  I 
died." 

Again  his  last  few  words  hung  trembling  upon  Walter's 
lips,  but  he  could  neither  utter  them,  nor  any  of  his  own. 

"  The  House  was  very  good  to  me.  May  Heaven  reward 
the  old  man  for  his  forbearance  !  This  one,  too,  his  son, 
who  was  then  newly  in  the  firm,  where  I  had  held  great 
trust  !  I  was  called  into  that  room  which  is  now  his— I 
have  never  entered  it  since — and  came  out,  what  you  know 
me.  For  many  years  I  sat  in  my  present  seat  alone,  as  now, 
but  then  a  known  and  recognized  example  to  the  rest. 
They  were  all  merciful  to  me,  and  I  lived.  Time  has  al- 
tered that  part  of  my  poor  expiation  ;  and  I  think,  except 
the  three  heads  of  the  House,  there  is  no  one  here  who 
knows  my  story  rightly.  Before  the  little  boy  grows  up,  and 
has  it  told  to  him,  my  corner  may  be  vacant.  I  would 
rather  that  it  might  be  so  !  This  is  the  only  change  to  me 
since  that  day,  when  I  left  all  youth,  and  hope,  and  good 
men's  company  behind  me  in  that  room.  God  bless  you, 
Walter  !  Keep  you,  and  all  dear  to  you,  in  honesty,  or  strike 
them  dead  !  " 

Some  recollection  of  his  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  as 
if  with  excessive  cold,  and  of  his  bursting  into  tears,  was  all 
that  Walter  could  add  to  this  when  he  tried  to  recall  exactly 
what  had  passed  between  them. 

When  Walter  saw  him  next,  he  was  bending  over  his  desk 
in  his  old  silent,  drooping,  humbled  way.  Then,  observing 
him  at  work,  and  feeling  how  resolved  he  evidently  was  that 
no  further  intercourse  should  arise  between  them,  and  think- 
ing again  and  again  on  all  he  had  seen  and  heard  that  morn- 
ing in  so  short  a  time,  in  connection  with  the  history  of  both 
the  Carkers,  Walter  could  hardly  believe  that  he  was  under 
orders  for  the  West  Indies,  and  would  soon  be  lost  to  Uncle 
Sol,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  to  glimpses  few  and  far  between 
of  Florence  Dombey — no,  he  meant  Paul — and  to  all  he 
loved,  and  liked,  and  looked  for,  in  his  daily  life. 

But  it  was  true,  and  the  news  had  already  penetrated  to 
the  outer  office  ;  for  while  he  sat  with  a  heavy  heart,  ponder- 
ing on  these  things,    and    resting    his   head    upon    his   arm, 


ipo  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

Perch  the  messenger,  descendmg  from  his  mahogany  bracket, 
and  jogging  his  elbow,  begged  his  pardon,  but  wished  to  say 
in  his  ear,  did  he  think  he  could  arrange  to  send  home  to 
England  a  jar  of  preserved  ginger,  cheap,  for  Mrs.  Perch's 
own  eating,  in  the  course  of  her  recovery  from  her  next 
confinement  ? 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

t>AUL   GROWS   MORE    AND    MORE     OLD-FASHIONED,      AND     GOES 
HOME    FOR   THE    HOLIDAYS. 

When  the  midsummer  vacation  approached,  no  indecent 
manifestations  of  joy  were  exhibited  by  the  leaden-eyed 
young  gentlemen  assembled  at  Doctor  Blimber's.  Any  such 
violent  expression  as"  breaking  up  "  would  have  been  quite 
inapplicable  to  that  polite  establishment.  The  young 
gentlemen  oozed  away,  semi-annually,  to  their  own  homes  ; 
but  they  never  broke  up.  They  would  have  scorned  the 
action. 

Tozer,  who  was  constantly  galled  and  tormented  by  a 
starched  white  cambric  neckerchief,  which  he  wore  at  the 
express  desire  of  Mrs.  Tozer,  his  parent,  who,  designing  him 
for  the  Church,  was  of  opinion  that  he  couldn't  be  in  that 
foward  state  of  preparation  too  soon — Tozer  said,  indeed, 
that  choosing  between  two  evils,  he  thought  he  would  rather 
stay  where  he  was,  than  go  home.  However  inconsistent  this 
declaration  might  appear  with  that  passage  in  Tozer' s  essay 
on  the  subject,  wherein  he  had  observed  "  that  the  thoughts 
of  home  and  all  its  recollections,  awakened  in  his  mind  the 
most  pleasing  emotions  of  anticipation  and  delight,"  and  had 
also  likened  himself  to  a  Roman  general,  flushed  with  a 
recent  victory  over  the  Iceni,  or  laden  with  Carthaginian 
spoil,  advancing  within  a  few  hours'  march  of  the  Capitol, 
presupposed,  for  the  purposes  of  the  simile,  to  be  the  dwell- 
ing-place of  Mrs.  Tozer,  still  it  was  very  sincerely  made. 
For  it  seemed  that  Tozer  had  a  dreadful  uncle,  who  not  only 
volunteered  examinations  of  him,  in  the  holidays,  on  abstruse 
points,  but  twisted  innocent  events  and  things,  and 
wrenched  them  to  the  same  fell  purpose.  So  that 
if  this  uncle  took  him  to  the  play,  or,  on  a  similar  pretense 
of  kindness,  carried  him   to   see  a  giant,  or  a  dwarf,  or  a 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  191 

conjurer,  or  any  thing,  Tozer  knew  he  had  read  up  some 
classical  allusion  to  the  subject  beforehand,  and  was  thrown 
into  a  state  of  mortal  apprehension  ;  not  foreseeing  where 
he  might  break  out,  or  what  authority  he  might  not  quote 
against  him. 

As  to  Briggs,  his  father  made  no  show  of  artifice  about  it. 
He  never  would  leave  him  alone.  So  numerous  and  severe 
were  the  mental  trials  of  that  unfortunate  youth  in  vacation- 
time,  that  the  friends  of  the  family  (then  resident  near  Bays- 
water,  London)  seldom  approached  the  ornamental  piece  of 
water  in  Kensington  Gardens  without  a  vague  expectation  of 
seeing  Master  Briggs's  hat  floating  on  the  surface,  and  an 
unfinished  exercise  lying  on  the  bank.  Briggs,  therefore, 
was  not  at  all  sanguine  on  the  subject  of  holidays  ;  and 
these  two  sharers  of  little  Paul's  bed-room  were  so  fair  a  sam- 
ple of  the  young  gentlemen  in  general,  that  the  most  elastic 
among  them  contemplated  the  arrival  of  those  festive  periods 
with  genteel  resignation. 

It  was  far  otherwise  with  little  Paul.  The  end  of  these 
first  holidays  was  to  witness  his  separation  from  Florence, 
but  who  ever  looked  forv/ard  to  the  end  of  holidays  whose 
beginning  was  not  yet  come  !  Not  Paul,  assuredly.  As  the 
happy  time  drew  near,  the  lions  and  tigers  climbing  up  the 
bed-room  walls  became  quite  tame  and  frolicsome.  The 
grim,  sly  faces  in  the  squares  and  diamonds  of  the  floor-cloth 
relaxed  and  peeped  out  at  him  with  less  wicked  eyes.  The 
grave  old  clock  had  more  of  personal  interest  in  the  tone  of 
its  formal  inquiry  ;  and  the  restless  sea  went  rolling  on  all 
night  to  the  sounding  of  a  melancholy  strain — yet  it  was 
pleasant  too — that  rose  and  fell  with  the  waves,  and  rocked 
him,  as  it  were  to  sleep. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  seemed  to  think  that  he,  too,  would 
enjoy  the  holidays  very  much.  Mr.  Toots  projected  a  life 
of  holidavs  from  that  time  forth  ;  for,  as  he  regularly 
informed  Paul  every  day,  it  was  his  "  last  half  "_  at  Doctor 
Blimber's,  and  he  was  going  to  come  into  his  property 
directly. 

It  was  perfectly  understood  between  Paul  and  Mr.  Toots 
that  they  were  intimate  friends,  notwithstanding  their  dis- 
tance in  point  of  years  and  station.  As  the  vacation 
approached,  and  Mr.  Toots  breathed  harder  and  stared 
oftener  in  Paul's  society  than  he  had  done  before,  Paul  knew 
that  he  meant  he  was  sorry  they  were  going  to  lose  sight  of 


192  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

each  other,   and  felt  very  much  obliged  to  him  for  his  pat- 
ronage and  good  opinion. 

It  was  even  understood  by  Doctor  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber 
and  Miss  Blimber,  as  well  as  by  the  young  gentlemen  in 
general,  that  Toots  had  somehow  constituted  himself  promo- 
ter and  guardian  of  Dombey,  and  the  circumstance  became 
so  notorious,  even  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  that  the  good  old  creature 
cherished  feelings  of  bitterness  and  jealousy  against  Toots  ; 
and  in  the  sanctuary  of  her  own  home,  repeatedly  denounced 
him  as  a  "  chuckle-headed  noodle."  Whereas  the  innocent 
Toots  had  no  more  idea  of  awaking  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wrath 
than  he  had  of  any  other  definite  possibility  or  proposition. 
On  the  contrary,  he  was  disposed  to  consider  her  rather  a 
remarkable  character,  with  many  points  of  interest  about  her. 
For  this  reason  he  smiled  on  her  with  so  much  urbanity,  and 
asked  her  how  she  did  so  often,  in  the  course  of  her  visits  to 
little  Paul,  that  at  last  she  one  night  told  him  plainly  she 
wasn't  used-to  it,  whatever  he  might  think  ;  and  she  could 
not,  and  would  not  bear  it,  either  from  himself  or  any  other 
puppy  then  existing  ;  at  which  unexpected  acknowledgment 
of  his  civilities,  Mr.  Toots  was  so  alarmed  that  he  secreted 
himself  in  a  retired  spot  until  she  had  gone.  Nor  did  he 
ever  again  face  the  doughty  Mrs.  Pipchin  under  Doctor 
Blimber's  roof. 

They  were  within  two  or  three  weeks  of  the  holidays,  when 
one  day,  Cornelia  Blimber  called  Paul  into  her  room,  and 
said,  ''  Dombey,  I  am  going  to  send  home  your  analysis." 

''  Thank  you,  ma'am,"  returned  Paul. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,  do  you,  Dombey  ?  "  inquired 
Miss  Blimber,  looking  hard   at  him  through  the  spectacles. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

"  Dombey,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  "  I  begin  to  be 
afraid  you  are  a  bad  boy.  When  you  don't  know  the  mean- 
ing of  an  expression,  why  don't  you  seek  for  information  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Pipchin  told  me  I  wasn't  to  ask  questions," 
returned  Paul. 

"  I  must  beg  you  not  to  mention  Mrs.  Pipchin  to  me  on 
any  account,  Dombey,"  returned  Miss  Blimber.  "  I  couldn't 
think  of  allowing  it.  The  course  of  study  here  is  very  far 
removed  from  any  thing  of  that  sort.  A  repetition  of  such 
allusions  would  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  request  to  hear, 
without  a  mistake,  before  breakfast-time  to-morrow  morning 
from  Verbu7n  personale  down  to  si?}iillima  cygiio^ 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  193 

"  I  didn't  mean,  ma'am  " — began  little  Paul. 

"  I  must  trouble  you  not  to  tell  me  that  you  didn't  mean, 
if  you  please,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  who  preserved 
an  awful  politeness  in  her  admonitions.  "  That  is  a  line  of 
argument  I  couldn't  dream  of  permitting." 

Paul  felt  it  safest  to  say  nothing  at  all,  so  he  only  looked 
at  Miss  Blimber's  spectacles.  Miss  Blimber  having  shaken 
her  head  at  him  gravely,  referred  to  a  paper  lying  before  her. 

"  '  Analysis  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  If  my  recol- 
lection serves  me,"  said  Miss  Blimber,  breaking  off,  "  the 
word  analysis,  as  opposed  to  synthesis,  is  thus  defined  by 
Walker  :  'The  resolution  of  an  object,  whether  of  the  senses 
or  of  the  intellect,  into  its  first  elements.'  As  opposed  to 
synthesis,  you  observe.  Now  you  know  what  analysis  is, 
Dombey." 

Dombey  didn't  seem  to  be  absolutely  blinded  by  the  light 
let  in  upon  his  intellect,  but  he  made  Miss  Blimber  a  little 
bow. 

"  '  Analysis,'  resumed  Miss  Blimber,  casting  her  eye  over 
the  paper,  '  of  the  character  of  P.  Dombey.'  I  find  that  the 
natural  capacity  of  Dombey  is  extremely  good,  and  that  his 
general  disposition  to  study  may  be  stated  in  an  equal 
ratio.  Thus,  taking  eight  as  our  standard  and  highest  num- 
ber, I  find  these  qualities  in  Dombey  stated  each  at  six  three- 
fourths  !  " 

Miss  Blimber  paused  to  see  how  Paul  received  this  news. 
Being  undecided  whether  six  three-fourths  meant  six  pounds 
fifteen,  or  sixpence  three  fathings,  or  six  foot  three,  or 
three-quarters  past  six,  or  six  somethings  that  he  hadn't 
learned  yet,  with  three  unknown  something  elses  over,  Paul 
rubbed  his  hands  and  looked  straight  at  Miss  Blimber.  It 
happened  to  answer  as  well  as  any  thing  else  he  could  have 
done:  and  Cornelia  proceeded. 

" '  Violence  two.  Selfishness  two.  Inclination  to  low 
company,  as  evinced  in  the  case  of  a  person  named  Glubb, 
originally  seven,  but  since  reduced.  Gentlemanly  demeanor 
four,  and  improving  with  advancing  years.'  Now  what  I  par- 
ticularly wish  to  call  your  attention  to,  Dombey,  is  the  gen- 
eral observation  at  the  close  of  this  analysis." 

Paul  set  himself  to  follow  it  with  great  care. 

"  '  It  may  be  generally  observed  of  Dombey,'  "  said  Miss 
Blimber,  reading  in  a  loud  voice,  and  at  every  second  word 
directing  her  spectacles  toward  the  little  figure  before  her, 


194  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  '  that  his  abilities  and  inclinations  are  good,  and  that  he 
has  made  as  much  progress  as  under  the  circumstances 
could  have  been  expected.  But  it  is  to  be  lamented  of  this 
young  gentleman  that  he  is  singular  (what  is  usually  termed 
old-fashioned)  in  his  character  and  conduct,  and  that,  without 
presenting  any  thing  in  either  which  distinctly  calls  for  repro- 
bation, he  is  often  very  unlike  other  young  gentlemen  of  his 
age  and  social  position.'  Now,  Dombey,"  said  Miss  Blim- 
ber,  laying  down  the  paper,  "  do  you  understand  that  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,  ma'am,"  said  Paul. 

**  This  analysis,  you  see,  Dombey,"  Miss  BHmber  continued, 
"  is  going  to  be  sent  home  to  your  respected  parent.  It  will 
naturally  be  very  painful  to  him  to  find  that  you  are  singu- 
lar in  your  character  and  conduct.  It  is  naturally  painful  to 
us  ;  for  we  can't  like  you,  you  know,  Dombey,  as  well  as  we 
could  wish." 

She  touched  the  child  upon  a  tender  point.  He  had 
secretly  become  more  and  more  solicitous  from  day  to  day, 
as  the  time  of  his  departure  drew  more  near,  that  all  the 
house  should  like  him.  For  some  hidden  reason,  very 
imperfectly  understood  by  himself — if  understood  at  all — 
he  felt  a  gradually  increasing  impulse  of  affection  toward 
almost  every  thing  and  every  body  in  the  place.  He  could 
not  bear  to  think  that  they  would  be  quite  indifferent  to 
him  when  he  was  gone.  He  wanted  them  to  remember  him 
kindly  ;  and  he  had  made  it  his  business  even  to  conciliate  a 
great  hoarse  shaggy  dog,  up  at  the  back  of  the  house,  who 
had  previously  been  the  terror  of  his  life  :  that  even  he 
might  miss  him  when  he  was  no  longer  there. 

Little  thinking  that  in  this  he  only  showed  again  the  dif- 
ference between  himself  and  his  compeers,  poor  tiny  Paul 
set  it  forth  to  Miss  Blimber  as  well  as  he  could,  and  begged 
her,  in  despite  of  the  official  analysis,  to  have  the  goodness 
to  try  and  like  him.  To  Mrs.  Blimber,  who  had  joined  them, 
he  preferred  the  same  petition  ;  and  when  that  lady  could 
not  forbear,  even  in  his  presence,  from  giving  utterance  to 
her  often-repeated  opinion,  that  he  was  an  odd  child,  Paul 
told  her  that  he  was  sure  she  was  quite  right ;  that  he 
thought  it  must  be  his  bones,  but  he  didn't  know  ;  and  that 
he  hoped  she  would  overlook  it,  for  he  was  fond  of  them  all. 

''  Not  so  fond,"  said  Paul,  with  a  mixture  of  timidity  and 
perfect  frankness,  which  was  one  of  the  most  peculiar  and 
most  engaging  qualities  of  the  child,  "  not  so  fond  as  I  am 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  195 

of  Florence,  of  course  ;  that  could    never  be.     You  couldn't 
expect  that,  could  you,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  the  old-fashioned  little  soul  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Blimber, 
ih  a  whisper. 

"  But  I  like  every  body  here  very  much."  pursued  Paul, 
"  and  I  should  grieve  to  go  away,  and  think  that  any  one  was 
glad  that  I  was  gone,  or  didn't  care." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  now  quite  sure  that  Paul  was  the  oddest 
child  in  the  world  ;  and  when  she  told  the  doctor  what  had 
passed,  the  doctor  did  not  controvert  his  wife's  opinion.  But 
he  said,  as  he  had  said  before,  when  Paul  first  came,  that 
study  would  do  much  ;  and  he  also  said,  as  he  said  on  that 
occasion,  "  Bring  him  on,  Cornelia  I     Bring  him  on  ! " 

Cornelia  had  always  brought  him  on  as  vigorously  as  she 
could  ;  and  Paul  had  had  a  hard  life  of  it.  But  over  and 
above  the  getting  through  his  tasks,  he  had  long  had  another 
purpose  always  present  to  him,  and  to  which  he  still  held  fast. 
It  was,  to  be  a  gentle,  useful,  quiet  little  fellow,  always 
striving  to  secure  the  love  and  attachment  of  the  rest  ;  and 
though  he  was  yet  often  to  be  seen  at  his  old  post  on  the 
stairs,  or  watching  the  waves  and  clouds  from  his  solitary 
window,  he  was  oftener  found,  too,  among  the  other  boys, 
modestly  rendering  them  some  little  voluntary  service.  Thus 
it  came  to  pass  that,  even  among  those  rigid  and  absorbed 
young  anchorites,  who  mortified  themselves  beneath  the 
roof  of  Doctor  Blimber,  Paul  was  an  object  of  general  inter- 
est ;  a  fragile  little  plaything  that  they  all  liked,  and  that  no 
one.  would  have  thought  of  treating  roughly.  But  he  could 
not  change  his  nature,  or  rewrite  the  analysis  ;  and  so  they 
all  agreed  that  Dombey  was  old-fashioned. 

There  were  some  immunities,  however,  attaching  to  the  char- 
acter enjoyed  by  no  one  else.  They  could  have  better  spared 
a  newer-fashioned  child,  and  that  alone  was  much.  When 
the  others  only  bowed  to  Doctor  Blimber  and  family  on  retir- 
ing for  the  night,  Paul  would  stretch  out  his  morsel  of  a  hand, 
and  boldly  shake  the  doctor's  ;  also  Mrs.  Blimber's  ;  also 
Cornelia's.  If  any  body  was  to  be  begged  off  from  impending 
punishment,  Paul  v/as  always  the  delegate.  The  weak-eyed 
young  man  himself  had  once  consulted  him  in  reference  to 
a  little  breakage  of  glass  and  china.  And  it  was  darkly  ru- 
mored that  the  butler,  regarding  him  v>'ith  favor  such  as  that 
stern  man  had  never  shown  before  to  mortal  boy,  had  some- 
times mingled  porter  with  his  table-beer  to  make  him  strong. 


196  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Over  and  above  these  extensive  privileges,  Paul  had  free 
right  of  entry  to  Mr.  Feeder's  room,  from  which  apartment 
he  had  twice  led  Mr.  Toots  into  the  open  air  in  a  state  of 
faintness,  consequent  on  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  smoke  a 
very  blunt  cigar  :  one  of  a  bundle  which  that  young  gentleman 
had  covertly  purchased  on  the  shingle  from  a  most  desper- 
ate smuggler,  who  had  acknowledged  in  confidence,  that  two 
hundred  pounds  was  the  price  set  upon  his  head,  dead  or 
alive,  by  the  custom-house.  It  was  a  snug  room,  Mr. 
Feeder's,  with  his  bed  in  another  little  room  inside  of  it  ; 
and  a  flute,  which  Mr.  Feeder  couldn't  play  yet,  but  was 
going  to  make  a  point  of  learning,  he  said,  hanging  up  over 
the  fire-place.  There  were  some  books  in  it  too,  and  a  fish- 
ing-rod ;  for  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  could  surely  make  a  point 
of  learning  to  fish  when  he  could  find  time.  Mr.  Feeder 
had  amassed,  with  similar  intentions,  a  beautiful  little  curly 
second-hand  key-bugle,  a  chess-board  and  men,  a  Spanish 
grammar,  a  set  of  sketching  material,  and  a  pair  of  boxing- 
gloves.  The  art  of  self-defense  Mr.  Feeder  said  he  should 
undoubtedly  make  a  point  of  learning,  as  he  considered  it  the 
duty  of  every  man  to  do  ;  for  it  might  lead  to  the  protection 
of  a  female  in  distress. 

But  Mr.  Feeder's  great  possession  was  a  large  green  jar  of 
snuff,  which  Mr.  Toots  had  brought  down  as  a  present  at 
the  close  of  the  last  vacation  ;  and  for  which  he  had  paid  a 
high  price,  as  having  been  the  genuine  property  of  the  Prince 
Regent.  Neither  Mr.  Toots  nor  Mr.  Feeder  could  partake 
of  this  or  any  other  snuff,  even  in  the  most  stinted  and 
moderate  degree,  without  being  seized  with  convulsions  of 
sneezing.  Nevertheless,  it  was  their  great  delight  to  moisten 
a  boxful  with  cold  tea,  stir  it  up  on  a  piece  of  parchment  with 
a  paper-knife,  and  devote  themselves  to  its  consumption 
then  and  there.  In  the  course  of  which  cramming  of  their 
noses,  they  endured  surprising  torments  with  the  constancy 
of  martyrs  ;  and,  drinking  table-beer  at  intervals,  felt  all  the 
glories  of  dissipation. 

To  little  Paul  sitting  silent  in  their  company,  and  by  the 
side  of  his  chief  patron,  Mr.  Toots,  there  was  a  dread  charm 
in  these  reckless  occasions  :  and  when  Mr.  Feeder  spoke  of 
the  dark  mysteries  of  London,  and  told  Mr.  Toots  that  he 
was  going  to  observe  it  himself  closely  in  all  its  ramifications 
in  the  approaching  holidays,  and  for  that  purpose  had  made 
arrangements    to   board    with   two    old    maiden    ladies   at 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  197 

Peckham,  Paul  regarded  him  as  if  he  were  the  hero  of 
some  book  of  travels  or  wild  adventure,  and  was  almost 
afraid  of  such  a  slashing  person. 

Going  into  this  room  one  evening,  when  the  holidays  were 
very  near,  Paul  found  Mr.  Feeder  filling  up  the  blanks  in 
some  printed  letters,  while  some  others,  already  filled  up  and 
strewn  before  him,  were  being  folded  and  sealed  by  Mr. 
Toots.  Mr.  Feeder  said,  "  Aha,  Dombey,  there  you  are,  are 
you  ?  " — for  .they  were  always  kind  to  him,  and  glad  to  see 
him — and  then  said,  tossing  one  of  the  letters  toward  him, 
"  And  there  you  are,  too,  Dombey.     That's  yours." 

"  Mine,  sir  ?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Your  invitation,"  returned  Mr.   Feeder. 

Paul,  looking  at  it,  found,  in  copper-plate  print,  with  the 
exception  of  his  own  name  and  the  date,  which  were  in  Mr. 
Feeder's  penmanship,  that  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  request- 
ed the  pleasure  of  Mr.  P.  Dombey' s  company  at  an  early 
partv  on  Wednesday  evening,  the  seventeenth  instant  ;  and 
that  the  hour  was  half -past  seven  o'clock  ;  and  that  the 
object  was  quadrilles.  Mr.  Toots  also  showed  him,  by 
holding  up  a  companion-sheet  of  paper,  that  Doctor  and 
Mrs.  Blimber  requested  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Toots's  company 
at  an  early  party  on  Wednesday  evening,  the  seventeenth 
instant,  when  the  hour  was  half-past  seven  o'clock,  and 
when  the  object  was  quadrilles.  He  also  found,  on  glanc- 
ing at  the  table  where  Mr.  Feeder  sat,  that  the  pleasure  of 
Mr.  Briggs  's  company,  and  of  IMr.  Tozer's  company,  and  of 
every  young  gentleman's  company,  was  requested  by  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Blimber  on  the  same  genteel  occasion. 

Mr.  Feeder  then  told  him,  to  his  great  joy,  that  his  sister 
was  invited,  and  that  it  was  a  half-yearly  event,  and  that,  as 
the  holidays  began  that  day,  he  could  go  away  vrith  his  sister 
after  the  party,  if  he  liked,  which  Paul  interrupted  him  to 
say  he  would  like,  very  much.  Mr.  Feeder  than  gave  him 
to  understand  that  he  would  be  expected  to  inform  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Blimber,  in  superfine  small-hand,  that  Mr.  P. 
Dombey  would  be  happy  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  on 
them,  in  accordance  with  their  polite  invitation.  Lastly,  Mr. 
Feeder  said,  he  had  better  not  refer  to  the  festive  occasion, 
in  the  hearing  of  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber  ;  as  these  prelimina- 
ries, and  the  whole  of  the  arrangements,  were  conducted  on 
principles  of  classicality  and  high  breeding  ;  and  that  Doctor 
and    Mrs.   Blimber  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  young  gentle- 


igH  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

men  on  the  other,  were  supposed,  in  their  scholastic  capaci- 
ties, not  to  have  the  least  idea  of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

Paul  thanked  Mr.  Feeder  for  these  hints,  and  pocketing 
his  invitation,  sat  down  on  a  stool  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Toots 
as  usual.  But  Paul's  head,  which  had  long  been  ailing  more 
or  less,  and  was  sometimes  very  heavy  and  painful,  felt  so 
uneasy  that  night,  that  he  was  obliged  to  support  it  on  his 
hand.  And  yet  it  dropped  so,  that  by  little  and  little  it  sunk 
on  Mr.  Toots's  knee,  and  rested  there,  as  if  it  had  no  care  to 
be  ever  lifted  up  again. 

That  was  no  reason  why  he  should  be  deaf  ;  but  he  must 
have  been,  he  thought,  for,  by  and  by,  he  heard  Mr.^  Feeder 
calling  in  his  ear,  and  gently  shaking  him  to  rouse  his  atten- 
tion. And  when  he  raised  his  head,  quite  scared,  and  looked 
about  him,  he  found  that  Doctor  Blimber  had  come  into  the 
room  ;  and  that  the  window  was  open,  and  that  his  forehead 
was  wet  with  sprinkled  water  ;  though  how  all  this  had  been 
done  without  his  knowledge,  was  very  curious  indeed. 

"  Ah  !  Come,  come  !  That's  well  !  How  is  my  little  friend 
now  ?"  said  Doctor  Blimber,  encouragingly. 
^'  Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Paul. 
But  there  seemed  to  be  something  the  matter  with  the 
floor,  for  he  couldn't  stand  upon  it  steadily  ;  and  with  the 
walls  too,  for  they  were  inclined  to  turn  round  and  round, 
and  could  only  be  stopped  by  being  looked  at  very  hard 
indeed.  Mr.  Toots's  head  had  the  appearance  of  being  at 
once  bigger  and  further  off  than  was  quite  natural  :  and 
when  he  took  Paul  in  his  arms  to  carry  him  up  stairs,  Paul 
observed  with  astonishment  that  the  door  was  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent place  from  that  in  which  he  had  expected  to  find  it, 
and  almost  thought,  at  first,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  going  to 
walk  straight  up  the  chimney. 

It  was  very  kind  of  Mr.  Toots  to  carry  him  to  the  top  of 
the  house  so  tenderly  ;  and  Paul  told  him  that  it  was.  But 
Mr.  Toots  said  he  would  do  a  great  deal  more  than  that,  if 
he  could  ;  and  indeed  he  did  more,  as  it  was  ;  for  he  helped 
Paul  to  undress,  and  helped  him  to  bed,  in  the  kindest  man- 
ner possible,  and  then  sat  down  by  the  bedside  and  chuckled 
very  much  ;  while  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  leaning  over  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bedstead,  set  all  the  little  bristles  on  his  head  bolt 
upright  with  his  bony  hands,  and  then  made  believe  to  spar 
at  Paul  with  great  science,  on  account  of  his  being  all  right 
again,  which  was  so  uncommonly  facetious,  and  kind  too  in 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  199 

Mr.  Feeder,  that  Paul,  not  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind 
whether  it  was  best  to  laugh  or  cry  at  him,  did  both  at  once. 

How  ;Mr.  Toots  melted  away,  and  ]\Ir.  Feeder  changed  into 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  Paul  never  thought  of  asking  ;  neither  was  he 
at  all  curious  to  know  ;  but  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Pipchin 
standing  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  instead  of  Mr.  Feeder,  he 
cried  out,  "  Mrs.  Pipchin,  don't  tell  Florence  !  " 

'*  Don't  tell  Florence  what,  my  little  Paul  ?  "  said  !Mrs. 
Pipchin,  coming  round  to  the  bedside,  and  sitting  down  in 
the  chair. 

"  About  me,"  said  Paul. 

"  No,  no,"  said  ^Irs.   Pipchin. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  mean  to  do  when  I  grow  up,  Mrs. 
Pipchin?"  inquired  Paul,  turning  his  face  toward  her  on 
his  pillow,  and  resting  his  chin  wistfully  on  his  folded  hands. 

Mrs.  Pipchin  couldn't  guess. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Paul,  "  to  put  my  money  all  together  in 
one  bank,  never  try  to  get  any  more,  go  away  into  the  coun- 
try with  my  darling  Florence,  have  a  beautiful  garden,  fields, 
and  woods,  and  live  there  with  her  all  my  life  !  " 

"  Indeed  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin. 

"  Yes,"  said  Paul.  "  That's  what  I  mean  to  do  when  I — " 
He  stopped,  and  pondered  for  a  moment. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  gray  eye  scanned  his  thoughtful  face. 

"  If  I  grow  up,"  said  Paul.  Then  he  went  on  immediately 
to  tell  Mrs.  Pipchin  all  about  the  party,  about  Florence's 
invitation,  about  the  pride  he  would  have  in  the  admiration 
that  would  be  felt  for  her  by  all  the  boys,  about  their  being 
so  kind  to  him  and  fond  of  him,  about  his  being  so  fond  of 
them,  and  about  his  being  so  glad  of  it.  Then  he  told  Mrs. 
Pipchin  about  the  analysis,  and  about  his  being  certainly  old- 
fashioned,  and  took  Mrs.  Pipchin's  opinion  on  that  point, 
and  whether  she  knew  why  it  was,  and  what  it  meant. 
Mrs.  Pipchin  denied  the  fact  altogether,  as  the  shortest  way 
of  getting  out  of  the  difficulty  ;  but  Paul  was  far  from  satis- 
fied with  that  reply,  and  looked  so  searchingly  at  Mrs. 
Pipchin  for  a  truer  answer,  that  she  was  obliged  to  get  up  and 
look  out  of  the  window  to  avoid  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  certain  calm  apothecary,  who  attended  at 
the  establishment  when  any  of  the  young  gentlemen  were  ill, 
and  somehow  /le  got  into  the  room  and  appeared  at  the  bed- 
side, with  Mrs.  Blimber.  How  they  came  there,  or  how  long 
they  had  been  there,    Paul   didn't  know  ;   but  when   he  saw 


200  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

them,  he  sat  up  in  bed,  and  answered  all  the  apothecary's 
questions  at  full  length,  and  whispered  to  him  that  Florence 
was  not  to  know  any  thing  about  it,  if  he  pleased,  and  that  he 
had  set  his  mind  upon  her  coming  to  the  party.  He  was 
very  chatty  with  the  apothecary,  and  they  parted  excellent 
friends.  Lying  down  again  with  his  eyes  shut,  he  heard  the 
apothecary  say,  out  of  the  room,  and  quite  a  long  way  off — 
or  he  dreamed  it — that  there  was  a  want  of  vital  power  (what 
was  that,  Paul  wondered  !),  and  great  constitutional  weak- 
ness. That,  as  the  little  fellow  had  set  his  heart  on  parting 
with  his  school-mates  on  the  seventeenth,  it  would  be  better 
to  indulge  the  fancy  if  he  grew  no  worse.  That  he  was  glad 
to  hear  from  Mrs.  Pipchin  that  the  little  fellow  would  go  to 
his  friends  in  London  on  the  eighteenth.  That  he  would 
write  to  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  should  have  gained  a  better 
knowledge  of  the  case,  and  before  that  day.  That  there  was 
no  immediate  cause  for — what  ?  Paul  lost  that  word.  And 
that  the  little  fellow  had  a  fine  mind,  but  was  an  old-fash- 
ioned boy. 

What  old  fashion  could  that  be,  Paul  wondered,  with  a 
palpitating  heart,  that  was  so  visibly  expressed  in  him — so 
plainly  seen  by  so  many  people  ! 

He  could  neither  make  it  out,  nor  trouble  himself  long 
with  the  effort.  Mrs.  Pipchin  was  again  beside  him,  if  she 
had  ever  been  away  (he  thought  she  had  gone  out  with  the 
doctor,  but  it  was  all  a  dream,  perhaps),  and  presently  a  bot- 
tle and  glass  got  into  her  hands  magically,  and  she  poured 
out  the  contents  for  him.  After  that,  he  had  some  real  good 
jelly,  which  Mrs.  Blimber  brought  to  him  herself;  and  then  he 
was  so  well  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  went  home,  at  his  urgent  solicita- 
tion, and  Briggs  and  Tozer  came  to  bed.  Poor  Briggs 
grumbled  terribly  about  his  own  analysis,  which  could  hardly 
have  discomposed  him  more  if  it  had  been  a  chemical 
process  ;  but  he  was  very  good  to  Paul,  and  so  was  Tozer, 
and  so  were  all  the  rest,  for  they  every  one  looked  in  before 
going  to  bed,  and  said,  "  How  are  you  now,  Dombey  ?  " 
"  Cheer  up,  little  Dombey  !  "  and  so  forth.  After  Briggs 
had  got  into  bed,  he  lay  awake  for  along  time,  still  bemoan- 
ing his  analysis,  and  saying  he  knew  it  was  all  wrong,  and 
they  couldn't  have  analyzed  a  murderer  worse,  and  how 
would  Dr.  Blimber  like  it  if  his  pocket-money  depended  on 
it  ?  It  was  very  easy,  Briggs  said,  to  make  a  galley-slave  of  a 
boy  all  the  half-year,  and   then  score  him  up  idle  ;  and  to 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  201 

crib  two  dinners  a  week  out  of  his  board,  and  then  score  him 
up  greedy  ;  but  that  wasn't  going  to  be  submitted  to,  he  be- 
lieved, was  it  ?  Oh  !  Ah  ! 

Before  the  weak-eyed  young  man  performed  on  the  gong 
next  morning,  he  came  up  stairs  to  Paul  and  told  him  he  was 
to  lie  still,  which  Paul  very  gladly  did.  Mrs.  Pipchin  re-ap- 
peared a  little  before  the  apothecary,  and  a  little  after  the 
good  young  woman  whom  Paul  had  seen  cleaning  the  stove 
on  that  first  morning  (how  long  ago  it  seemed  now  !)  had 
brought  him  his  breakfast.  There  was  another  consultation 
a  long  way  off,  or  else  Paul  dreamed  it  again  ;  and  then  the 
apothecary,  coming  back  with  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
said  : 

"  Yes,  I  think.  Dr.  Blimber,  we  may  release  this  young 
gentleman  from  his  books  just  now;  the  vacation  being  so 
very  near  at  hand." 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Dr.  Blimber.     "  My  love,    you  will 
inform  Cornelia,  if  you  please." 
"  Assuredly,"  said  Mrs.  Blimber. 

The  apothecary  bending  down,  looked  closely  into  Paul's 
eyes,  and  felt  his  head,  and  his  pulse,  and  his  heart,  with  so 
much  interest  and  care,  that  Paul  said  "  Thank  you,  sir." 

"  Our  little  friend,"  observed  Dr.  Blimber,  "  has  never 
complained." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  replied  the  apothecary.  "  He  was  not  likely 
to  complain." 

"  You  find  him  greatly  better  ? "  said  Dr.  Blimber. 
"  Oh  !  he  is  greatly  better,  sir,"  returned  the  apothecary. 
Paul  had  begun  to  speculate,  in  his  own  odd  way,  on  the 
subject  that  might  occupy  the  apothecary's  mind  just  at  that 
moment  ;  so  musingly  had  he  ansv/ered  the  two  questions  of 
Dr.  Blimber.  But  the  apothecary  happening  to  meet  his  little 
patient's  eyes  as  the  latter  set  off  on  that  mental  expedition, 
and  coming  instantly  out  of  his  abstraction  with  a  cheerful 
smile,  Paul  smiled  in  return,  and  abandoned  it. 

He  lay  in  bed  all  that  day,  dozing  and  dreaming,  and  look- 
ing at  Mr.  Toots  ;  but  got'  up  on  the  next  and  went  down 
stairs.  Lo  and  behold,  there  was  something  the  matter  with 
the  great  clock  ;  and  a  workman  on  a  pair  of  steps  had  taken 
its  face  off,  and  was  poking  instruments  into  the  works  by  the 
light  of  a  candle  !  This  was  a  great  event  for  Paul,  who  sat 
down  on  the  bottom  stair,  and  watched  the  operation  atten- 
tively: now  and  then  glancing  at  the  clock  face,  leaning  all 


202  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

askew  against  the  wall  hard  by,  and  feeling  a  little  confused 
by  a  suspicion  that  it  was  ogling  him. 

The  workman  on  the  steps  was  very  civil  ;  and  as  he  said, 
when  he  observed  Paul,  ^'  How  do  you  do,  sir  ?  "  Paul  got  into 
conversation  with  him,  and  told  him  he  hadn't  been  quite 
well  lately.  The  ice  being  thus  broken,  Paul  asked  him  a 
multitude  of  questions  about  chimes  and  clocks  ;  as,  whether 
people  watched  up  in  the  lonely  church-steeples  by  night  to 
make  them  strike,  and  how  the  bells  were  rung  when  people 
died,  and  whether  those  were  different  bells  from  wedding- 
bells,  or  only  sounded  dismal  in  the  fancies  of  the  living. 
Finding  that  his  new  acquaintance  was  not  very  well 
informed  on  the  subject  of  the  Curfew  Bell  of  ancient  days, 
Paul  gave  him  an  account  of  that  institution  ;  and  also  asked 
him,  as  a  practical  man,  what  he  thought  about  King  Alfred's 
idea  of  measuring  time  by  the  burning  of  candles  ;  to  which 
the  workman  replied,  that  he  thought  it  would  be  the  ruin  of 
the  clock  trade  if  it  was  to  come  up  again.  In  fine,  Paul 
looked  on  until  the  clock  had  quite  recovered  its  familiar 
aspect,  and  resumed  its  sedate  inquiry:  when  the  workman, 
putting  away  his  tools  in  a  long  basket,  bade  him  good-day, 
and  went  away.  Though  not  before  he  had  whispered  some- 
thing on  the  door-mat  to  the  footman,  in  which  there  was 
the  phrase  ''  old  fashioned  " — for  Paul  heard  it. 

What  could  that  old  fashion  be,  that  seemed  to  make  the 
people  sorry  !     AVhat  could  it  be  ! 

Having  nothing  to  learn  now,  he  thought  of  this  fre- 
quently ;  though  not  so  often  as  he  might  have  done  if  he 
had  had  fewer  things  to  think  of.  But  he  had  a  great  many  ; 
and  was  always  thinking,  all  day  long. 

First,  there  was  Florence  coming  to  the  party.  Florence 
would  see  that  the  boys  were  fond  of  him,  and  that  would 
make  her  happy.  This  was  his  great  theme.  Let  Florence 
once  be  sure  that  they  were  gentle  and  good  to  him,  and  that 
he  had  become  a  little  favorite  among  them,  and  then  she 
would  always  think  of  the  time  he  had  passed  there  without 
being  very  sorry.  Florence  might  be  all  the  happier  too  for 
that,  perhaps,  when  he  came  back. 

When  he  came  back  !  Fifty  times  a  day  his  noiseless 
little  feet  went  up  the  stairs  to  his  own  room,  as  he  collected 
every  book  and  scrap  and  trifle  that  belonged  to  him,  and 
put  them  all  together  there,  down  to  the  minutest  thing,  for 
taking  home  !     There  was  no  shade  of  coming  back  on  Httle 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  203 

Paul  ;  no  preparation  for  it,  or  other  reference  to  it,  grew  out 
of  any  thing  he  thought  or  did,  except  this  slight  one  in  con- 
nection with  his  sister.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  to  think  of 
every  thing  familiar  to  him,  in  his  contemplative  moods  and 
in  his  wanderings  about  the  house,  as  being  to  be  parted  with  ; 
and  hence  the  many  things  he  had  to  think  of  all  day  long. 

He  had  to  peep  into  those  rooms  up  stairs,  and  think  how 
solitary  they  would  be  when  he  was  gone,  and  wonder  through 
how  many  silent  days,  weeks,  months,  and  years,  they  would 
continue  just  as  grave  and  undisturbed.  He  had  to  think — 
would  any  other  child  (old-fashioned,  like  himself)  stray  there 
at  any  time,  to  whom  the  same  grotesque  distortions  of  pat- 
tern and  furniture  would  manifest  themselves  ;  and  would 
any  body  tell  that  boy  of  little  Dombey,  who  had  been  there 
once. 

He  had  to  think  of  a  portrait  on  the  stairs,  which  always 
looked  earnestly  after  him  as  he  went  away,  eying  it  over  his 
shoulder:  and  which,  when  he  passed  it  in  the  company  of 
any  one,  still  seemed  to  gaze  at  him,  and  not  at  his  compan- 
ion. He  had  much  to  think  of  in  association  with  a  print 
that  hung  up  in  another  place,  where,  in  the  center  of  a 
wondering  group,  one  figure  that  he  knew,  a  figure  with  a 
light  about  its  head— benignant,  mild,  and  merciful — stood 
pointing  upward. 

At  his  ov/n  bed-room  window  there  were  crowds  of  thoughts 
that  mixed  with  these,  and  came  on,  one  upon  another,  like 
the  rolling  waves.  Where  those  wild  birds  lived  that  were 
always  hovering  out  at  sea  in  troubled  weather  ;  where  the 
clouds  rose  and  first  began  ;  wiience  the  wind  issued  on  its 
rushing  flight,  and  where  it  stopped  ;  whether  the  spot  where 
he  and  Florence  had  so  often  sat,  and  watched,  and  talked 
about  these  things,  could  ever  be  exactly  as  it  used  to  be 
without  them  ;  whether  it  could  ever  be  the  same  to  Flor- 
ence, if  he  were  in  some  distant  place,  and  she  were  sitting 
there  alone. 

He  had  to  think,  too,  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.  ; 
of  all  the  boys  ;  and  of  Dr.  Blimber,  Mrs.  Blimber,  and  Miss 
Blimber  ;  of  home,  and  of  his  aunt  and  Miss  Tox  ;  of  his 
father,  Dombey  and  Son,  Walter,  with  the  poor  old  uncle 
who  had  got  the  money  he  wanted,  and  that  gruff-voiced 
captain  with  the  iron  hand.  Besides  all  this,  he  had  a  num- 
ber of  little  visits  to  pay  in  the  course  of  the  day  ;  to  the 
school-room,    to   Dr.    Blimber's    study,   to   Mrs.    Blimber's 


204  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

private  apartment,  to  Miss  Blimber's,  and  to  the  dog.  For 
he  was  free  of  the  whole  house  now,  to  range  it  as  he  chose  ; 
and,  in  his  desire  to  part  with  every  body  on  affectionate 
terms,  he  attended,  in  his  way,  to  them  all.  Sometimes  he 
found  places  in  books  for  Briggs,  who  was  always  losing 
them  ;  sometimes  he  looked  up  words  in  dictionaries  for 
other  young  gentlemen  who  were  in  extremity  ;  sometimes 
he  held  skeins  of  silk  for  Mrs.  Blimber  to  wind  ;  sometimes 
he  put  Cornelia's  desk  to  rights  ;  sometimes  he  would  even 
creep  into  the  doctor's  study,  and,  sitting  on  the  carpet  near 
his  learned  feet,  turn  the  globes  softly,  and  go  round  the 
world,  or  take  a  flight  among  the  far-off  stars. 

In  those  days  immediately  before  the  holidays,  in  short, 
when  the  other  young  gentlemen  were  laboring  for  dear  life 
through  a  general  resumption  of  the  studies  of  the  whole 
half-year,  Paul  was  such  a  privileged  pupil  as  had  never 
been"  seen  in  that  house  before.  He  could  hardly  believe  it 
himself  ;  but  his  liberty  lasted  from  hour  to  hour,  and  from 
day  to  day  ;  and  little  Dombey  was  caressed  by  every  one. 
Doctor  Blimber  was  so  particular  about  him,  that  he  requested 
Johnson  to  retire  from  the  dinner-table,  one  day,  for  having 
thoughtlessly  spoken  to  him  as  "  poor  little  Dombey  ;  "  which 
Paul  thought  rather  hard  and  severe,  though  he  had  flushed 
at  the  moment,  and  wondered  why  Johnson  should  pity  him. 
It  was  the  more  questionable  justice,  Paul  thought,  in  the 
doctor,  from  his  having  certainly  overheard  that  great 
authority  give  his  assent  on  the  previous  evening  to  the 
proposition  (stated  by  Mrs.  Blimber)  that  poor  dear  little 
Dombey  was  more  old-fashioned  than  ever.  And  now  it 
was  that  Paul  began  to  think  it  must  surely  be  old-fashioned 
to  be  very  thin,  and  light,  and  easily  tired,  and  soon  disposed 
to  lie  down  anywhere  and  rest  ;  for  he  couldn't  help  feeling 
that  these  were  more  and  more  his  habits  every  day. 

At  last  the  party-day  arrived  ;  and  Doctor  Blimber  said  at 
breakfast,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  next  month.  "  Mr.  Toots  immediately 
threw  off  his  allegiance,  and  put  on  his  ring:  and  mentioning 
the  doctor  in  casual  conversation  shortly  afterward,  spoke 
of  him  as  "  Blimber  !  "  This  act  of  freedom  inspired  the 
older  pupils  with  admiration  and  envy  ;  but  the  younger 
spirits  were  appalled,  and  seemed  to  marvel  that  no  bearo 
fell  down  and  crushed  him. 

Not  the  least  allusion  was  made  to  the  ceremonies  of  the 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  205 

evening,  either  at  breakfast  or  at  dinner  ;  but  there  was  a 
bustle  in  the  house  all  day,  and  in  the  course  of  his  peram- 
bulations Paul  made  acquaintance  with  various  strange 
benches  and  candlesticks,  and  met  a  harp  in  a  green  great- 
coat standing  on  the  landing  outside  the  drawing-room  door. 
There  was  something  queer,  too,  about  Mrs.  Blimber's  head 
at  dinner-time,  as  if  she  had  screwed  her  hair  up  too  tight  ; 
and  though  Miss  Blimber  showed  a  graceful  bunch  of  plaited 
hair  on  each  temple,  she  seemed  to  have  her  own  little 
curls  in  paper  underneath,  and  in  a  play-bill  too  ;  for  Paul 
reed  ''  Theater  Royal  "  over  one  of  her  sparkling  spectacles, 
and  "  Brighton  "  over  the  other. 

There  was  a  grand  array  of  white  waistcoats  and  cravats 
in  the  young  gentlemen's  bedrooms  as  evening  approached  ; 
and  such  a  smell  of  singed  hair,  that  Doctor  Blimber  sent  up 
the  footman  with  his  compliments,  and  wished  to  know  if 
the  house  was  on  fire.  But  it  was  only  the  hair-dresser  curl- 
ing the  young  gentlemen,  and  overheating  his  tongs  in  the 
ardor  of  business. 

When  Paul  was  dressed — which  was  very  soon  done,  for  he 
felt  unwell  and  drowsy,  and  was  not  able  to  stand  about  it 
very  long — he  went  down  into  the  drawing-room  ;  where  he 
found  Doctor  Blimber  pacing  up  and  down  the  room  full 
dressed,  but  with  a  dignified  and  unconcerned  demeanor,  as 
if  he  thought  it  barely  possible  that  one  or  two  people  might 
drop  in  by  and  by.  Shortly  afterward,  Mrs.  Blimber  ap- 
peared looking  lovely,  Paul  thought,  and  attired  in  such  a 
number  of  skirts  that  it  was  quite  an  excursion  to  walk  round 
her.  Miss  Blimber  came  down  soon  after  her  mamma  ;  a 
little  squeezed  in  appearance,  but  very  charming. 

Mr.  Toots  and  Mr.  Feeder  were  the  next  arrivals.  Each 
of  these  gentlemen  brought  his  hat  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  lived 
somewhere  else  ;  and  when  they  were  announced  by  the 
butler,  Doctor  Blimber  said,  "  Ay,  ay,  ay  !  God  bless  my 
soul  !  "  and  seemed  extremely  glad  to  see  them.  Mr.  Toots 
was  one  blaze  of  jewelry  and  buttons  ;  and  he  felt  the  cir- 
cumstance so  strongly,  that  when  he  had  shaken  hands  with 
the  doctor,  and  had  bowed  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Miss  Blim- 
ber, he  took  Paul  aside,  and  said,  "  What  do  you  think  of 
this,  Dombey  ?  " 

But  notwithstanding  this  modest  confidence  in  himself, 
Mr.  Toots  appeared  to  be  involved  in  a  good  deal  of  uncer- 
tainty whether,  on  the  whole,  it  was  judicious  to  button  the 


2o6  DOMBEY   AND   SOR 

bottom  button  of  his  waistcoat,  and  whether,  on  a  cahii  revis- 
ion of  all  the  circumstances,  it  was  best  to  wear  his  wrist- 
bands turned  up  or  turned  down.  Observing  that  Mr. 
Feeder's  were  turned  up,  Mr.  Toots  turned  his  up  ;  but  the 
wristbands  of  the  next  arrival  being  turned  down,  Mr.  Toots 
turned  his  down.  The  differences  in  point  of  waistcoat  but- 
toning, not  only  at  the  bottom,  but  at- the  top  too,  became 
so  numerous  and  complicated  as  the  arrivals  thickened,  that 
Mr.  Toots  was  continually  fingering  that  article  of  dress,  as 
if  he  were  performing  on  some  instrument  ;  and  appeared  to 
find  the  incessant  execution  it  demanded  quite  bewilder- 
ing. 

All  the  young  gentlemen,  tightly  cravated,  curled,  and 
pumped,  and  with  their  best  hats  in  their  hands,  having  been 
at  different  times  announced  and  introduced,  Mr.  Baps,  the 
dancing-master,  came,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Baps,  to  whom 
Mrs.  Blimber  was  extremely  kind  and  condescending.  Mr. 
Baps  was  a  very  grave  gentleman,  with  a  slow  and  measured 
manner  of  speaking  ;  and  before  he  had  stood  under  the  lamp 
five  minutes,  he  began  to  talk  to  Toots  (who  had  been  silently 
comparing  pumps  with  him)  about  what  you  were  to  do  with 
your  raw  materials  when  they  came  into  your  ports  in  return 
for  your  drain  of  gold.  Mr.  Toots,  to  whom  the  question 
seemed  perplexing,  suggested,  "  Cook  'em.  "  But  Mr.  Baps 
did  not  appear  to  think  that  would  do. 

Paul  now  slipped  away  from  the  cushioned  corner  of  a 
sofa,  which  had  been  his  post  of  observation,  and  went  down 
stairs  into  the  tea-room  to  be  ready  for  Florence,  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  nearly  a  fortnight,  as  he  had  remained  at 
Doctor  Blimber's  on  the  previous  Saturday  and  Sunday, 
lest  he  should  take  cold.  Presently  she  came:  looking  so 
beautiful  in  her  simple  ball-dress,  with  her  fresh  flowers  in 
her  hand,  that  when  she  kneeled  down  on  the  ground  to  take 
Paul  round  the  neck  and  kiss  him  (for  there  was  no  one  there 
but  his  friend  and  another  young  woman  waiting  to  serve 
out  the  tea),  he  could  hardly  make  up  his  mind  to  let  her  go 
again,  or  to  take  away  her  bright  and  loving  eyes  from  his 
face. 

"  But  what  is  the  matter,  Floy  ?  "  asked  Paul,  almost  sure 
that  he  saw  a  tear  there. 

"  Nothing,  darling — nothing,"  returned  Florence. 

Paul  touched  her  cheek  gently  with  his  finger — and  it  was 
a  tear  !  "  Why,  Floy  I  "  said  he. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  207 

'*  We'll  go  home  together,  and  I'll  nurse  you,  love,"  said 
Florence. 

"  Nurse  me  !  "  echoed  Paul. 

Paul  couldn't  understand  what  that  had  to  do  with  it,  nor 
why  the  two  voung  women  looked  on  so  seriously,  nor  why 
Florence  turned  away  her  face  for  a  moment,  and  then 
turned  it  back,  lighted  up  again  with  smiles. 

"  Floy,"  said  Paul,  holding  a  ringlet  of  her  dark  hair  in  his 
hand.  '"  Tell  me,  dear.  Do  you  think  I  have  grown  old- 
fashioned  ?  " 

His  sister  laughed,  and  fondled  him,  and  told  him  "  No." 

"  Because  I  know  they  say  so,"  returned  Paul,  ''  and  I 
want  to  know  what  they  mean,  Floy." 

But  a  loud  double  knock  coming  at  the  door,  and  Florence 
hurrving  to  the  table,  there  was  no  more  said  between  them. 
Paul  wondered  again  when  he  saw  his  friend  whisper  to  Flor- 
ence, as  if  she  were  comforting  her  ;  but  a  new  arrival  put 
that  out  of  his  head  speedily. 

It  was  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  Lady  Skettles,  and  Master 
Skettles.  Master  Skettles  was  to  be  a  new  boy  after  the 
vacation,  and  Fame  had  been  busy,  in  Mr.  Feeder's  room, 
with  his  father,  who  was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  of 
whom  ^Ir.  Feeder  had  said  that  when  he  aid  catch  the 
Speaker's  eye  (which  he  had  been  expected  to  do  for  three 
or  four  year's),  it  was  anticipated  that  he  would  rather  touch 
up  the  Radicals. 

"  And  what  room  is  this  now,  for  instance  ?  "  said  Lady 
Skettles  to  Paul's  friend,  'Melia. 

"  Doctor  Blimber's  study,  ma'am,"  was  the  reply. 

Lady  Skettles  took  a  panoramic  survey  of  it  through  her 
glass,  and  said  to  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  a  nod  of  approval, 
"  Very  good."  Sir  Barnet  assented,  but  Master  Skettles 
looked  suspicious  and  doubtful. 

"  And  this  little  creature,  now,"  said  Lady  Skettles,  turn- 
ing to  Paul.     "  Is  he  one  of  the — " 

"Young  gentlemen,  ma'am  ;  yes,  ma'am,"  said  Paul's 
friend. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  my  pale  child  ?  "  said  Lady 
Skettles. 

"  Dombey,"  answered  Paul. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  immediately  interposed,  and  said  that 
he  had  had  the  honor  of  meeting  Paul's  father  at  a  public 
dinner^  and  that  he  hoped  he  was  very  well,     Then  Paul 


2oS  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

heard  him  say  to  Lady  Skettles,  "  City — very  rich — most  res- 
pectable— doctor  mentioned  it."  And  then  he  said  to 
Paul,  "  Will  you  tell  your  good  papa  that  Sir  Barnet  Skettles 
rejoiced  to  hear  that  he  was  very  well,  and  sent  him  his  best 
compliments  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Paul. 

"  That  is  my  brave  boy,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles.  "Barnet," 
to  Master  Skettles — who  was  revenging  himself  for  the  stud- 
ies to  come,  on  the  plum-cake — "  this  is  a  young  gentleman 
you  ought  to  know.  This  is  a  young  gentleman  you  may 
know,  Barnet,"  said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  with  an  emphasis  on 
the  permission. 

"  What  eyes  !  What  hair  !  What  a  lovely  face  !  "  exclaimed 
Lady  Skettles,  softly,  as  she  looked  at  Florence  through 
her  glass. 

"  My  sister,"  said  Paul,  presenting  her. 

The  satisfaction  of  the  Skettleses  was  now  complete.  And 
as  Lady  Skettles  had  conceived,  at  first  sight,  a  liking  for 
Paul,  they  all  went  up  stairs  together  ;  Sir  Barnet  Skettles 
taking  care  of  Florence,  and  young  Barnet  following. 

Young  Barnet  did  not  remain  long  in  the  back-ground 
after  they  had  reached  the  drawing-room,  for  Doctor  Blim- 
ber  had  him  out  in  no  time  dancing  with  Florence.  He  did 
not  appear  to  Paul  to  be  particularly  happy,  or  particularly 
any  thing  but  sulky,  or  to  care  much  what  he  was  about  ; 
but  as  Paul  heard  Lady  Skettles  say  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  while 
she  beat  time  with  her  fan,  that  her  dear  boy  was  evidently 
smitten  to  death  by  that  angel  of  a  child.  Miss  Dombey,  it 
would  seem  that  Skettles  Junior  was  in  a  state  of  bliss,  with- 
out showing  it. 

Little  Paul  thought  it  a  singular  coincidence  that  nobody 
had  occupied  his  place  among  the  pillows  ;  and  that  when 
he  came  into  the  room  again,  they  should  all  make  way  for 
him  to  go  back,  to  it,  remembering  it  was  his.  Nobody 
stood  before  him  either,  when  they  observed  that  he  liked  to 
see  Florence  dancing,  but  they  left  the  space  in  front  quite 
clear,  so  that  he  might  follow  her  with  his  eyes.  They  were 
so  kind,  too,  even  the  strangers,  of  whom  there  were  soon  a 
great  many,  that  they  came  and  spoke  to  him  every  now  and 
then,  and  asked  him  how  he  was,  and  if  his  head  ached,  and 
whether  he  was  tired.  He  was  very  much  obliged  to  them 
for  all  their  kindness  and  attention,  and  reclining  propped 
up  in  his  corner,   with  Mrs.   Blimber  and  Lady  Skettles  on 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  209 

the  same  sofa,  and  Florence  coming  and  sitting  by  his  side  as 
soon  as  every  dance  was  ended,  he  looked  on  very  happily 
indeed. 

Florence  would  have  sat  by  him  all  night,  and  would  not 
have  danced  at  all  of  her  own  accord,  but  Paul  made  her,  by 
telling  her  how  much  it  pleased  him.  And  he  told  her  the 
truth,  too  ;  for  his  small  heart  swelled,  and  his  face  glowed, 
when  he  saw  how  much  they  all  admired  her,  and  how  she 
was  the  beautiful  little  rose-bud  of  the  room. 

From  his  nest  among  the  pillows,  Paul  could  see  and  hear 
almost  every  thing  that  passed,  as  if  the  whole  were  being 
done  for  his  amusement.  Among  other  little  incidents  that 
he  observed,  he  observed  Mr.  Baps  the  dancing-master  get  into 
conversation  with  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  and  very  soon  ask  him, 
as  he  had  asked  Mr.  Toots,  what  you  were  to  do  with  your  raw 
materials,  when  they  came  in  to  your  ports,  in  return  for  your 
drain  of  gold — which  was  such  a  mystery  to  Paul  that  he  was 
quite  desirous  to  know  what  ought  to  be  done  with  them. 
Sir  Barnet  Skettles  had  much  to  say  upon  the  question,  and 
said  it  ;  but  it  did  not  appear  to  solve  the  question,  for  ^Ir. 
Baps  retorted.  Yes,  but  supposing  Russia  stepped  in  with  her 
tallows  ;  which  struck  Sir  Barnet  almost  dumb,  for  he  could 
only  shake  his  head  after  that,  and  say,  why,  then,  you  must 
fall  back  upon  your  cottons,  he  supposed. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  looked  after  Mr.  Baps  when  he  vrent 
to  cheer  up  Mrs.  Baps  (who,  being  quite  deserted,  was  pre- 
tending to  look  over  the  music-book  of  the  gentleman  v/ho 
plaved  the  harp),  as  if  he  thought  him  a  remarkable  kind  of 
man  ;  and  shortly  afterward  he  said  so  in  those  words  to  Dr. 
Blimber,  and  inquired  if  he  might  take  the  liberty  of  asking 
who  he  was,  and  whether  he  had  ever  been  in  the  Board  of 
Trade.  Doctor  Blimber  answered  no,  he  believed  not  ;  and 
that  in  fact  he  was  a  professor  of — 

"Of  something  connected  with  statistics,  I'll  swear?"  ob- 
served Sir  Barnet  Skettles. 

"Why  no,  Sir  Barnet,"  replied  Dr.  Blimber,  rubbing  his 
chin.     "No,  not  exactly." 

"Figures  of  some  sort,  I  would  venture  a  bet,"  said  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles. 

"  Why  yes,"  said  Dr.  Blimber,  "  yes,  but  not  of  that  sort. 
Mr.  Baps  is  a  very  worthy  sort  of  man,  Sir  Barnet,  and — in 
fact  he's  our  professor  of  dancing." 

Paul  was  amazed  to  see  that  this  piece  of  information 


zio  UOMBEY    AND    SON. 

quite  altered  Sir  Barnet  Skettles's  opinion  of  Mr.  Baps,  and 
that  Sir  Barnet  flew  into  a  perfect  rage,  and  glowered  at  Mr. 
Baps  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  D  Mr.  Baps  to  Lady  Skettles,  in  telling  her  what  had 
happened,  and  to  say  that  it  was  like  his  most  con-sum-mate 
and  con-foun-ded  impudence. 

There  was  another  thing  that  Paul  observed.  Mr.  Feed- 
er, after  imbibing  several  custard-cups  of  negus,  began  to 
enjoy  himself.  The  dancing  in  general  was  ceremonious, 
and  the  music  rather  solemn — a  little  like  church  music,  in 
fact — but  after  the  custard-cups,  Mr.  Feeder  told  Mr.  Toots 
that  he  was  going  to  throw  a  little  spirit  into  the  thing.  After 
that,  Mr.  Feeder  not  only  began  to  dance  as  if  he  meant  danc- 
ing and  nothing  else,  but  secretly  to  stimulate  the  music  to 
perform  wild  tunes.  Further,  he  became  particular  in  his  atten- 
tions to  the  ladies  ;  and  dancing  with  Miss  Blimber,  whispered 
to  her — whispered  to  her  ! — though  not  so  softly  but  that 
Paul  heard  him  say  this  remarkable  poetry, 

"  Had  I  a  heart  for  falsehood  framed, 
I  ne'er  could  injure  You  !  " 

This  Paul  heard  him  repeat  to  four  young  ladles  in  succesn 
sion.  Well  might  Mr.  Feeder  say  to  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was 
afraid  he  should  be  the  worse  for  it  to-morrow  ! 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  a  little  alarmed  by  this — comparatively 
speaking — profligate  behavior;  and  especially  by  the  alteration 
in  the  character  of  the  music,  which,  beginning  to  compre- 
hend low  melodies  that  were  popular  in  the  streets,  might  not 
unnaturally  be  supposed  to  give  offense  to  Lady  Skettles.  But 
Lady  Skettles  was  so  very  kind  as  to  beg  Mrs.  Blimber  not 
to  mention  it  ;  and  to  receive  her  explanation  that  Mr. 
Feeder's  spirits  sometimes  betrayed  him  into  excesses  on 
these  occasions,  with  the  greatest  courtesy  and  politeness  ; 
observing,  that  he  seemed  a  very  nice  sort  of  person  for  his 
situation,  and  that  she  particularly  liked  the  unassuming 
st^de  of  his  hair— which  (as  already  hinted)  was  about  a 
quarter  of  an  inch  long. 

Once,  when  there  was  a  pause  in  the  dancing,  Lady  Sket- 
tles told  Paul  that  he  seemed  very  fond  of  music.  Paul 
replied  that  he  was  ;  and  if  she  was  too,  she  ought  to  hear 
his  sister,  Florence,  sing.  Lady  Skettles  presently  discovered 
that  she  was  dying   with  anxiety  to  have  that  gratification  ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  211 

and  though  Florence  was  at  first  very  much  frightened  at 
being  asked  to  sing  before  so  many  people,  and  begged  earn- 
estly to  be  excused,  yet,  on  Paul  calling  her  to  him,  and  say- 
ing, "  Do,  Floy  !  Please  !  For  me,  my  dear  !  "  she  went 
straight  to  the  piano,  and  began.  When  they  all  drew  a  little 
away,  that  Paul  might  see  her  ;  and  when  he  saw  her  sitting 
there  alone,  so  young,  and  good,  and  beautiful,  and  kind  to 
him  ;  and  heard  her  thrilling  voice,  so  natural  and  sweet, 
and  such  a  golden  link  between  him  and  all  his  life's  love 
and  happiness,  rising  out  of  the  silence  ;  he  turned  his  face 
awav,  and  hid  his  tears.  Not,  as  he  told  them  when  they 
spoke  to  him,  not  that  the  music  was  too  plaintive  or  too  sor- 
rowful, but  it  was  so  dear  to  him. 

They  all  loved  Florence  !  How  could  they  help  it  !  Paul 
had  known  beforehand  that  they  must  and  would  ;  and  sit- 
ting in  his  cushioned  corner,  with  calmly  folded  hands,  and 
one  leg  loosely  doubled  under  him,  few  would  have  thought 
what  triumph  and  delight  expanded  his  childish  bosom  while 
he  watched  her,  or  what  a  sweet  tranquillity  he  felt.  Lavish 
encomiums  on  ''  Dombey's  sister  "  reached  his  ears  from  all 
the  boys  :  admiration  of  the  self-possessed  and  modest  little 
beauty  was  on  every  lip  :  reports  of  her  intelligence  and  ac- 
complishments floated  past  him,  constantly  ;  and,  as  if  borne 
in  upon  the  air  of  the  summer  night,  there  was  a  half-intelli- 
gible sentiment  diffused  around,  referring  to  Florence  and 
himself,  and  breathing  sympathy  for  both,  that  soothed  and 
touched  him. 

He  did  not  know  why.  For  all  that  the  child  observed, 
and  felt,  and  thought,  that  night,  the  present  and  the  absent 
— what  was  then  and  what  had  been — were  blended  like  the 
colors  in  the  rainbow,  or  in  the  plumage  of  rich  birds  when 
the  sun  is  shining  on  them,  or  in  the  softening  sky  when  the 
same  sun  is  setting.  The  many  things  he  had  had  to  think 
of  lately,  passed  before  him  in  the  music  ;  not  as  claiming 
his  attention  over  again,  or  as  likely  evermore  to  occupy  it, 
but  as  peacefully  disposed  of  and  gone.  A  solitary  window, 
gazed  through  years  ago,  looked  out  upon  an  ocean,  miles 
and  miles  away  ;  upon  its  waters,  fancies,  busy  Avith  him 
only  yesterday,  were  hushed  and  lulled  to  rest  like  broken 
waves.  The  same  mysterious  rnurmur  he  had  wondered  at, 
when  lying  on  his  couch  upon  the  beach,  he  thought  he  still 
heard  sounding  through  his  sister's  song,  and  through  the 
hum  of  voices,  and  the  treac).  gf  feet,  and  having  some  part 


212  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in  the  faces  flittinGj  by,  and  even  in  the  hec^vy  gentleness  oi 
Mr.  Toots,  who  frequently  came  up  to  shake  him  by  the 
hand.  Through  the  universal  kindness  he  still  thought  he 
heard  it,  speaking  to  him  ;  and  even  his  old-fashioned  repu- 
tation seemed  to  be  allied  to  it,  he  knew  not  how.  Thus  little 
Paul  sat  musing,  listening,  looking  on,  and  dreaming  ;  and 
was  very  happy. 

Until  the  time  arrived  for  taking  leave  ;  and  then,  indeed, 
there  was  a  sensation  in  the  party.  Sir  Barnet  Skettles 
brought  up  Skettles  Junior  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  remember  to  tell  his  good  papa,  with 
his  best  compliments,  that  he,  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  had  said 
he  hoped  the  two  young  gentlemen  would  become  intimately 
acquainted.  Lady  Skettles  kissed  him,  and  parted  his  hair 
upon  his  brow,  and  held  him  in  her  arms;  and  even  Mrs. 
Baps — poor  Mrs.  Baps  !  Paul  was  glad  of  that — came  over 
from  beside  the  music-book  of  the  gentleman  who  played  the 
harp,  and  took  leave  of  him  quite  as  heartily  as  any  body  in 
the  room. 

"  Good-by,  Doctor  Blimber,"  said  Paul,  stretching  out 
his  hand. 

"  Good-by,  my  little  friend,"  returned  the  doctor. 
*'  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  said  Paul,  looking 
innocently  up  into  his  awful  face.     "  Ask  them  to  take  care 
of  Diogenes,  if  you  please." 

Diogenes  was  the  dog  ;  who  had  never  in  his  life  received 
a  friend  into  his  confidence,  before  Paul.  The  doctor 
promised  that  every  attention  should  be  paid  to  Diogenes  in 
Paul's  absence,  and  Paul  having  again  thanked  him,  and 
shaken  hands  with  him,  bade  adieu  to  Mrs.  Blimber  and 
Cornelia  with  such  heartfelt  earnestness  that  Mrs.  Blimber 
forgot  from  that  moment  to  mention  Cicero  to  Lady  Skettles, 
though  she  had  fully  intended  it  all  the  evening.  Cornelia, 
taking  both  Paul's  hands  in  hers,  said,  "  Dombey,  Dombey, 
you  have  always  been  my  favorite  pupil.  God  bless  you  !  " 
And  it  showed,  Paul  thought,  how  easily  one  might  do  in- 
justice to  a  person  ;  for  Miss  Blimber  meant  it — though  she 
was  a  Forcer. 

A  buzz  then  went  round  among  the  young  gentlemen  of 
"  Dombey's  going  !  "  *'  Little  Dombey's  going  !  "  and  there 
was  a  general  move  after  Paul  and  Florence  down  the  stair- 
case and  into  the  hall,  in  which  the  whole  Blimber  family 
were  included.     Such  a  circumstance,  Mr.  Feeder  said  aloud, 


DOiMBEY  AND  SON.  213 

as  had  never  happened  in  the  case  of  any  former  young 
gentleman  within  his  experience  ;  but  it  would  be  difficult 
to  say  if  this  were  sober  fact  or  custard-cups.  The  servants, 
with  the  butler  at  their  head,  had  all  an  interest  in  seeing 
Little  Dombey  go  ;  and  even  the  weak-eyed  young  man, 
taking  out  his  books  and  trunks  to  the  coach  that  was  to 
carry  him  and  Florence  to  Mrs.  Pipchin's  for  the  night, 
melted  visibly. 

Not  even  the  influence  of  the  softer  passion  on  the  young 
gentlemen — and  they  all,  to  a  boy,  doted  on  Florence — 
could  restrain  them  from  taking  quite  a  noisy  leave  of  Paul  ; 
waving  hats  after  him,  pressing  down  stairs  to  shake  hands 
with  him,  crying  individually,  ''  Dombey,  don't  forget  me  !  " 
and  indulging  in  many  such  ebullitions  of  feeling,  uncom- 
mon among  those  young  Chesterfields.  Paul  whispered 
Florence,  as  she  wrapped  him  up  before  the  door  was  opened. 
Did  she  hear  them  ?  Would  she  ever  forget  it  ?  Was  she 
glad  to  know  it  ?  And  a  lively  delight  was  in  his  eyes  as  he 
spoke  to  her. 

Once,  for  a  last  look,  he  turned  and  gazed  upon  the  faces 
thus  addressed  to  him,  surprised  to  see  how  shining  and  how 
bright  and  numerous  they  were,  and  how  they  were  all  piled 
and  heaped  up,  as  faces  are  at  crowded  theaters.  They 
swam  before  him  as  he  looked,  like  faces  in  an  agitated  glass  ; 
and  next  moment  he  was  in  the  dark  coach  outside,  holding 
close  to  Florence.  From  that  time,  whenever  he  thought  of 
Doctor  Blimber's  it  came  back  as  he  had  seen  it  in  this  last 
view  ;  and  it  never  seemed  to  be  a  real  place  again,  but 
always  a  dream,  full  of  eyes. 

This  was  not  quite  the  last  of  Doctor  Blimber's,  however. 
There  was  something  else.  There  was  Mr.  Toots.  Who, 
unexpectedly  letting  down  one  of  the  coach-windows  and 
looking  in,  said,  with  a  most  egregious  chuckle,  "  Is  Dombey 
there  ?  "  and  immediately  put  it  up  again,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer.  Nor  was  this  quite  the  last  of  Mr.  Toots, 
even  ;  for  before  the  coachman  could  drive  off,  he  as  suddenly 
let  dov/n  the  other  window,  and  looking  in  with  a  precisely 
similar  chuckle,  said,  in  a  precisely  similar  tone  of  voice, 
"  Is  Dombey  there  ?  "  and  disappeared  precisely  as  before. 

How  Florence  laughed  !  Paul  often  remembered  it,  and 
laughed  himself  whenever  he  did  so. 

But  there  was  much,  soon  afterward — next  day,  and  after 
that — which  Paul  could  only  recollect  confusedly.     As,  why 


214  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

they  staid  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's  days  and  nights,  instead  of 
going  home  ;  why  he  lay  in  bed,  with  Florence  sitting  by  his 
side  ;  whether  that  had  been  his  father  in  the  room,  or  only 
a  tall  shadow  on  the  wall  ;  whether  he  had  heard  his  doctor 
say,  of  some  one,  that  if  they  had  removed  him  before  the 
occasion  on  which  he  had  built  up  fancies,  strong  in  propor- 
tion to  his  own  weakness,  it  was  very  possible  he  might  have 
pined  away. 

He  could  not  even  remember  whether  he  had  often  said  to 
Florence,  ''  Oh  Floy,  take  me  home,  and  never  leave  me  ?  " 
but  he  thought  he  had.  He  fancied  sometimes  he  had  heard 
himself  repeating,  *'  Take  me  home,   Floy,  take  me  iiome  ! " 

But  he  could  remember,  when  he  got  home,  and  was  car- 
ried up  the  well-remembered  stairs,  that  there  had  been  the 
rumbling  of  a  coach  for  many  hours  together,  while  he  lay 
upon  the  seat,  with  Florence  still  beside  him,  and  old  Mrs. 
Pipchin  sitting  opposite.  He  remembered  his  old  bed  too, 
when  they  laid  him  down  in  it  :  his  aunt,  Miss  Tox,  and 
Susan  ;  but  there  was  something  else,  and  recent  too,  that 
still  perplexed  him. 

'^  I  want  to  speak  to  Florence,  if  you  please,"  he  said.  "  To 
Florence  by  herself,  for  a  moment." 

She  bent  down  over  him,  and  the  others  stood  away. 

"  Floy,  my  pet,  wasn't  that  papa  in  the  hall,  when  they 
brought  me  from  the  coach  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  He  didn't  cry,  and  go  into  his  room,  Floy,  did  he,  when 
he  saw  me  coming  in?"  Florence  shook  her  head,  and 
pressed  her  lips  against  his  cheek. 

"  I'm  very  glad  he  didn't  cry,"  said  little  Paul  "  I  thought 
he  did.     Don't  tell  them  that  I  asked." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AMAZING     ARTFULNESS    OF     CAPTAIN     CUTTLE,     AND    A     NEW 
PURSUIT   FOR   WALTER   GAY. 

Walter  could  not,  for  several  days,  decide  what  to  do  in 
the  Barbados  business  ;  and  even  cherished  some  faint  hope 
that  Mr.  Dombey  might  not  have  meant  what  he  had  said,  or 
that  he  might  change  his  mind,  and  tell  him  he  was  not  to  go. 
But  as  nothing  occurred  to  give  this  idea  (which  wa?  mM* 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  215 

ciently  improbable  in  itself)  any  touch  of  confirmation,  and  as 
time  was  slipping  by,  and  he  had  none  to  lose,  he  felt  that  he 
must  act,  without  hesitating  any  longer. 

Walter's  chief  difficulty  was,  how  to  break  the  change  in 
his  affairs  to  Uncle  Sol,  to  whom  he  was  sensible  it  would  be 
a  terrible  blow.  He  had  the  greater  difficulty  in  dashing 
Uncle  Sol's  spirits  with  such  an  astounding  piece  of  intelli- 
gence, because  they  had  lately  recovered  very  much,  and  the 
old  man  had  become  so  cheerful,  that  the  little  back  parlor 
was  itself  again.  Uncle  Sol  had  paid  the  first  appointed  por- 
tion of  the  debt  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  was  hopeful  of  working 
his  way  through  the  rest  ;  and  to  cast  him  down  afresh,  when 
he  had  sprung  up  so  manfully  from  his  troubles,  was  a  very 
distressing  necessity. 

Yet  it  would  never  do  to  run  away  from  him.  He  must 
know  of  it  beforehand  ;  and  how  to  tell  him  was  the  point. 
As  to  the  question  of  going  or  not  going,  Walter  did  not  con- 
sider that  he  had  any  power  of  choice  in  the  matter.  Mr. 
Dombey  had  truly  told  him  that  he  was  young,  and  that  his 
uncle's  circumstances  were  not  good  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  had 
plainly  expressed,  in  the  glance  with  which  he  had  accom- 
panied that  reminder,  that  if  he  declined  to  go  he  might  stay 
at  home  if  he  chose,  but  not  in  his  counting  house.  His 
uncle  and  he  lay  under  a  great  obligation  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
which  was  of  Walter's  own  soliciting.  He  might  have  begun 
in  secret  to  despair  of  ever  winning  that  gentleman's  favor, 
and  might  have  thought  that  he  was  now  and  then  disposed  to 
put  a  slight  upon  him,  which  was  hardly  just.  But  vdiat  would 
have  been  duty  without  that,  was  still  duty  with  it — or 
Walter  thought  so — and  duty  must  be  done. 

When  ]Mr.  Dombey  had  looked  at  him  and  told  him  he 
was  young,  and  that  his  uncle's  circumstances  were  not  good, 
there  had  been  an  expression  of  disdain  in  his  face  ;  a  con- 
temptuous and  disparaging  assumption  that  he  would  be 
quite  content  to  live  idly  on  a  reduced  old  man,  which  stung 
the  boy's  generous  soul.  Determined  to  assure  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  give  him  the  assurance  without 
expressing  it  in  words,  that  indeed  he  mistook, his  nature, 
Walter  had  been  anxious  to  show  even  more  cheerfulness 
and  activity  after  the  West  Indian  interview  than  he  had 
shown  before  ;  if  that  were  possible,  in  one  of  his  quick  and 
zealous  disposition.  He  was  too  young  and  inexperienced 
to  think  that  possibly  this  very  quality  in  him  was  not  agree- 


2i6  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

able  to  Mr,  Dombey,  and  that  it  was  no  stepping-stone  to 
his  good  opinion  to  be  elastic  and  hopeful  of  pleasing  under 
the  shadow  of  his  powerful  displeasure,  whether  it  were  right 
or  wrong.  But  it  may  have  been — it  may  have  been — that 
the  great  man  thought  himself  defied  in  this  new  exposition 
of  an  honest  spirit,  and  purposed  to  bring  it  down. 

"  Well  !  at  last  and  at  least  Uncle  Sol  must  be  told," 
thought  Walter,  with  a  sigh.  And  as  Walter  was  apprehen- 
sive that  his  voice  might  perhaps  quaver  a  little,  and  that  his 
countenance  might  not  be  quite  as  hopeful  as  he  could  wish 
it  to  be,  if  he  told  the  old  man  himself,  and  saw  the  first 
effects  of  his  communication  on  his  wrinkled  face,  he  resolved 
to  avail  himself  of  the  services  of  that  powerful  mediator, 
Captain  Cuttle.  Sunday  coming  round,  he  set  off,  there- 
fore, after  breakfast,  once  more  to  beat  up  Captain  Cuttle's 
quarters. 

It  was  not  unpleasant  to  remember,  on  the  way  thither,  that 
Mrs.  MacStinger  resorted  to  a  great  distance  every  Sunday 
morning  to  attend  the  ministry  of  the  Reverend  Melchisedec 
Howler,  who,  having  been  one  day  discharged  from  the  West 
India  Docks  on  a  false  suspicion  (got  up  expressly  against  him 
by  the  general  enemy)  of  screwing  gimlets  into  puncheons 
and  applying  his  lips  to  the  orifice,  had  announced  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  world  for  that  day  two  years,  at  ten  in  the  morning, 
and  opened  a  front  parlor  for  the  reception  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  of  the  Ranting  persuasion,  upon  whom,  on  the 
first  occasion  of  their  assemblage,  the  admonitions  of  the 
Reverend  Melchisedec  had  produced  so  powerful  an  effect, 
that,  in  their  rapturous  performance  of  a  sacred  jig,  which 
closed  •  the  service,  the  whole  flock  broke  through  into  a 
kitchen  below,  and  disabled  a  mangle  belonging  to  one  of  the 
fold. 

This  the  captain,  in  a  moment  of  uncommon  conviviality, 
had  confided  to  Walter  and  his  uncle,  between  the  repetitions 
of  lovely  Peg,  on  the  night  when  Brogley  the  broker  was  paid 
out.  The  captain  himself  was  punctual  in  his  attendance  at 
a  church  in  his  own  neighborhood,  which  hoisted  the  Union- 
Jack  every  Sunday  moring  ;  and  where  he  was  good  enough 
— the  lawful  beadle  being  infirm — to  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
boys,  over  whom  he  exercised  great  power,  in  virtue  of  his 
mysterious  hook.  Knowing  the  regularity  of  the  captain's 
habits,  Walter  made  all  the  haste  he  could,  that  he  might 
anticipate  his  going  out  ;  and  he  made  such  good  speed,  that 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  217 

he  had  the  pleasure,  on  turning  into  Brig  Place,  to  behold  the 
broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat  hanging  out  of  the  captain's 
open  window,  to  air  in  the  sun. 

It  appeared  incredible  that  the  coat  and  waistcoat  could  be 
seen  by  mortal  eyes  without  the  captain  :  but  he  certainly 
was  not  in  them,  otherwise  his  legs— the  houses  in  Brig  Place 
not  being  lofty— would  have  obstructed  the  street  door, 
which  was  perfectly  clear.  Quite  wondering  at  this  discovery, 
Walter  gave  a   single  knock. 

"  Stinger,"  he  distinctly  heard  the  captain  say,  up  in  his 
room,  as  if  that  were  no  business  of  his.  Therefore  Walter 
gave  two  knocks. 

''  Cuttle,"  he  heard  the  captain  say  upon  that  ;  and  im- 
mediately afterward  the  captain  in  his  clean  shirt  and  braces, 
with  his  neckerchief  hanging  loosely  round  his  throat  like  a 
coil  of  rope,  and  his  glazed  hat  on,  appeared  at  the  window, 
leaning  out  over  the  broad  blue  coat  and  waistcoat. 

"  Wal'r  !  "  cried  the  captain,  looking  down  upon  him  in 
amazement. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  "  only  me.  " 
*'  What's  the  matter,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  captain,  with 
great    concern.      "  Gills    ain't    been    and   sprung    nothing 
again  ?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Walter.  "  My  uncle's  all  right,  Captam 
Cuttle." 

The  captain  expressed  his  gratification,  and  said  he  would 
come  down  below  and  open  the  door,  which  he  did. 

"  Though  you're  early,   Wal'r,  "   said  the   captain,  eying 
him  still  doubtfully,  when  they  got  up  stairs. 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,  Captain  Cuttle,  "  said  Walter,  sitting 
down,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  have  gone  out  and  I  want  to 
benefit  by  your  friendly  counsel." 

"  So  you  shall,  "  said  the   captain  ;  ''  what'll  you  take  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  take  your  opinion.  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned 
Walter,  smiling.     "  That's  the  only  thing  for  me." 

"  Come   on,   then,  "  said  the   captain.     "  With  a  will,  my 

lad  !  " 

Walter  related  to  him  what  had  happened  ;  and  the  diffi- 
culty in  which  he  felt  respecting  his  uncle,  and  the  relief  it 
would  be  to  him  if  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  kindness,  would 
help  him  to  smooth  it  away  ;  Captain  Cuttle's  infinite  con- 
sternation and  astonishment  at  the  prospect  unfolded  to  him, 
gradually  swallowing  that  gentleman  up,  until  it  left  his  face 


2i8  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

quite  vacant,  and  the  suit  of  blue,  the  glazed  hat,  and  the 
hook,  apparently  without  an  owner. 

"  You  see,  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Walter,  "  for  myself, 
I  am  young,  as  Mr.  Dombey  said,  and  not  to  be  considered. 
I  am  to  fight  my  way  through  the  world,  I  know  ;  but  there 
are  two  points,  I  was  thinking  as  I  came  along,  that  I  should 
be  very  particular  about  in  respect  to  my  uncle.  I  don't 
mean  to  say  that  I  deserve  to  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  his 
life — you  believe  me,  I  know — but  I  am.  Now,  don't  you 
think  I  am?" 

The  captain  seemed  to  make  an  endeavor  to  rise  from  the 
depths  of  his  astonishment,  and  get  back  to  his  face  ;  but 
the  effort  being  ineffectual,  the  glazed  hat  merely  nodded 
with  a  mute,  unutterable  meaning. 

"  If  I  live  and  have  my  health,  "  said  Walter,  "  and  I  am 
not  afraid  of  that,  still,  when  I  leave  England  I  can  hardly 
hope  to  see  my  uncle  again.  He  is  old.  Captain  Cuttle  ; 
and  besides,  his  life  is  a  life  of  custom — " 

"  Steady,  Wal'r  !  Of  a  want  of  custom  !  "  said  the  cap- 
tain, suddenly  re-appearing. 

"  Too  true,  "  returned  Walter,  shaking  his  head  ;  "  but  I 
meant  a  life  of  habit.  Captain  Cuttle — that  sort  of  custom. 
And  if  (as  you  very  truly  said,  I  am  sure)  he  would  have 
died  the  sooner  for  the  loss  of  the  stock,  and  all  those  ob- 
jects to  which  he  has  been  accustomed  for  so  many  years, 
don't  you  think  he  might  die  a  little  sooner  for  the  loss  of — " 

"  Of  his  nevy,"  interposed  the  captain.     "  Right  !  " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Walter,  trying  to  speak  gayly,  "  we 
must  do  our  best  to  make  him  believe  that  the  separation  is 
but  a  temporary  one,  after  all  ;  but  as  I  know  better,  or  dread 
that  I  know  better,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  as  I  have  so  many 
reasons  for  regarding  him  with  affection,  and  duty,  and 
honor,  I  am  afraid  I  should  make  but  a  very  poor  hand  at 
that  if  I  tried  to  persuade  him  of  it.  That's  my  great  reason 
for  wishing  you  to  break  it  out  to  him  ;  and  that's  the  first 
point." 

"  Keep  her  off  a  point  or  so  !  "  observed  the  captain,  in  a 
contemplative  voice. 

"What  did  you  say.  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  inquired  Walter. 

''  Stand  by  !  "  returned  the  captain,  throughtfully. 

Walter  paused  to  ascertain  if  the  captain  had  any  par- 
ticular information  to  add  to  this,  but  as  he  said  no  more, 
went  on. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  219 

**  Now,  the  second  point,  Captain  Cuttle.  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
I  am  not  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Dombey.  I  have  always  tried  to 
do  my  best,  and  I  have  always  done  it  ;  but  he  does  not  like 
me.  He  can't  help  his  likings  and  dislikings,  perhaps.  I  say 
nothing  of  that.  I  only  say  that  I  am  certain  he  does  not 
like  me.  He  does  not  send  me  to  this  post  as  a  good  one  ; 
he  disdains  to  represent  it  as  being  better  than  it  is  ;  and  I 
doubt  very  much  if  it  will  ever  lead  me  to  advancement  in  the 
House — whether  it  does  not,  on  the  contrary,  dispose  of  me 
forever,  and  put  me  out  of  the  way.  Now,  we  must  say  noth- 
ing of  this  to  my  uncle,  Captain  Cuttle,  but  must  make  it  out 
to  be  as  favorable  and  promising  as  we  can  ;  and  when  I  tell 
you  what  it  really  is,  I  only  do  so,  that  in  case  any  means 
should  ever  arise  of  lending  me  a  hand,  so  far  off,  I  may  have 
one  friend  at  home  who  knows  my  real  situation." 

"  Wal'r,  my  boy,"  replied  the  captain,  "  in  the  Proverbs  of 
Solomon  you  will  find  the  following  words  :  '  May  we  never 
want  a  friend  in  need,  nor  a  bottle  to  give  him  !  '  When 
found,  make  a  note  of." 

Here  the  captain  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Walter  with  an 
air  of  downright  good  faith  that  spoke  volumes  ;  at  the  same 
time  repeating  (for  he  felt  proud  of  the  accuracy  and  pointed 
application  of  his  quotation),  "  When  found,  make  a  note  of." 
"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  taking  the  immense  fist  ex- 
tended to  him  by  the  captain  in  both  his  hands,  which  it 
completely  filled,  "  next  to  my  Uncle  Sol,  I  love  you.  There 
is  no  one  on  earth  in  whom  I  can  more  safely  trust,  I  am 
sure.  As  to  the  mere  going  away.  Captain  Cuttle,  I  don't 
care  for  that  ;  why  should  I  care  for  that  !  If  I  were  free  to 
seek  my  own  fortune — if  I  were  free  to  go  as  a  common  sailor 
— if  I  were  free  to  venture  on  my  own  account  to  the  furthest 
end  of  the  world — I  would  gladly  go  !  I  would  have  gladly 
gone,  years  ago,  and  taken  my  chance  of  what  might  come  of 
it.  But  it  was  against  my  uncle's  wishes,  and  against  the 
plans  he  had  formed  for  me  ;  and  there  was  an  end  of  that. 
But  what  I  feel.  Captain  Cuttle,  is  that  we  have  been  a  little 
mistaken  all  along,  and  that,  so  far  as  any  improvement  in 
my  prospects  is  concerned,  I  am  no  better  off  now  than 
I  was  v.'hen  I  first  entered  Dombey's  House — perhaps  a  little 
v/orse,  for  the  House  may  have  been  kindly  inclined  toward 
me  then,  and  it  certainly  is  not  now." 

"  Turn    again,   Whittington,"   muttered    the   disconsolate 
captain,  after  looking  at  Walter  for  some  time. 


220  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Ay  !  "  replied  Walter,  laughing,  "  and  turn  a  great  many 
times,  too,  Captain  Cuttle,  I'm  afraid,  before  such  fortune  as 
his  ever  turns  up  again.  Not  that  I  complain,"  he  added,  in 
his  lively,  animated,  energetic  way.  "  I  have  nothing  to 
complain  of.  I  am  provided  for.  I  can  live.  When  I  leave 
my  uncle,  I  leave  him  to  you  ;  and  I  can  leave  him  to  no  one 
better,  Captain  Cuttle.  I  haven't  told  you  all  this  because  I 
despair,  not  1  ;  it's  to  convince  you  that  I  can't  pick  and 
choose  in  Dombey's  House,  and  that  where  I  am  sent,  there  I 
must  go,  and  what  I  am  offered  that  I  must  take.  It's  better 
for  my  uncle  that  I  should  be  sent  away  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey  is 
a  valuable  friend  to  him,  as  he  proved  himself,  you  know 
when,  Captain  Cuttle  ;  and  I  am  persuaded  he  won't  be  less 
valuable  when  he  hasn't  me  there,  every  day,  to  awaken  his 
dislike.  So,  hurrah  for  the  West  Indies,  Captain  Cuttle  ! 
How  does  that  tune  go  that  the  sailors  sing  ? 

"  For  the  Port  of  Barbados  ! 

Cheerily  ! 
Leaving  Old  England  behind  us,  Boys  ! 

Cheerily!" 

Here  the  Captain  roared  in  chorus — 

"  Oh  cheerily,    cheerily  ! 
Oh  cheer— i—ly  !  " 

The  last  line  reaching  the  quick  ears  of  an  ardent  skipper 
not  quite  sober,  who  lodged  opposite,  and  who  instantly 
sprung  out  of  bed,  threw  up  his  window  and  joined  in,  across 
the  street,  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  producing  a  fine  effect. 
When  it  was  impossible  to  sustain  the  concluding  note  any 
longer,  the  skipper  bellowed  forth  a  terrific  "Ahoy  !  "  intend- 
ed in  part  as  a  friendly  greeting,  and  in  part  to  show  that  he 
was  not  at  all  breathed.  That  done,  he  shut  down  his 
window  and  went  to  bed  again. 

"  And  now.  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  handing  him 
the  blue  coat  and  waistcoat,  and  bustling  very  much,  ''  if 
you'll  come  and  break  the  news  to  Uncle  Sol  (which  he 
ought  to  have  known  days  and  days  ago,  by  rights),  I'll  leave 
you  at  the  door,  you  know,  and  walk  about  until  the  after- 
noon." 

The  captain,  however,  scarcely  appeared  to  relish  the 
commission,  or  to  be  by  any  means  confident  of  his  powers 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  221 

of  executing  it.  He  had  arranged  the  future  life  and  adven- 
tures of  Walter  so  very  differently,  and  so  entirely  to  his  own 
satisfaction;  he  had  felicitated  himself  so  often  on  the  sagac- 
ity and  foresight  displayed  in  that  arrangement,  and  had 
found  it  so  complete  and  perfect  in  all  its  parts  ;  that  to 
suffer  it  to  go  to  pieces  all  at  once,  and  even  to  assist  in 
breaking  it  up,  required  a  great  effort  of  his  resolution.  The 
captain,  too,  found  it  difficult  to  unload  his  old  ideas  upon 
the  subject,  and  to  take  a  perfectly  new  cargo  on  board,  with 
that  rapidity  which  the  circumstances  required,  or  without 
jumbling  and  confounding  the  two.  Consequently,  instead 
of  putting  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat  with  any  thing  like  the 
impetuosity  that  could  alone  have  kept  pace  with  Walter's 
mood,  he  declined  to  invest  himself  with  those  garments  at 
all  at  present  ;  and  informed  Walter  that  on  such  a  serious 
matter,  he  must  be  allowed  to  ''  bite  his  nails  a  bit." 

"  It's  an  old  habit  of  mine,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  "  any 
time  these  fifty  year.  When^you  see  Ned  Cuttle  bite  his 
nails,  Wal'r,  then  you  may  know  that  Ned  Cuttle's  aground." 

Thereupon  the  captain  put  his  iron  hook  between  his  teeth, 
as  if  it  were  a  hand  ;  and  with  an  air  of  wisdom  and  pro- 
fundity that  was  the  very  concentration  and  sublimation  of 
all  philosophical  reflection  and  grave  inquiry,  applied  himself 
to  the  consideration  of  the  subject  in  its  various  branches. 

"  There's  a  friend  of  mine,"  murmured  the  captain,  in  an 
absent  manner,  "  but  he's  at  present  coasting  round  to 
Whitby,  that  would  deliver  such  an  opinion  on  this  subject, 
or  any  other  that  could  be  named,  as  would  give  Parliament 
six  and  beat  'em.  Been  knocked  overboard,  that  man,"  said 
the  captain,  "  twice,  and  none  the  worse  for  it.  Was  beat  in 
his  apprenticeship,  for  three  weeks  (off  and  on),  about  the 
head  with  a  ring-bolt.  And  yet  a  clearer-minded  man  don't 
walk." 

In  spite  of  his  respect  for  Captain  Cuttle,  Walter  could 
not  help  inwardly  rejoicing  at  the  absence  of  this  sage,  and 
devoutly  hoping  that  his  limpid  intellect  might  not  be 
brought  to  bear  on  his  difficulties  until  they  were  quite  settled. 

"  If  you  was  to  talk  and  show  that  man  the  buoy  at  the 
Nore,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  same  tone,  '^  and  ask  him 
his  opinion  of  it,  Wal'r,  he'd  give  you  an  opinion  that  was 
no  more  like  that  buoy  than  your  uncle's  buttons  are.  There 
ain't  a  man  that  walks — certainly  not  on  f7C'o\egs — that  can 
come  near  him.     Not  near  him  !  " 


222  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  What's  his  name,  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  inquired  Walter,  de- 
termined to  be  interested  in  the  captain's  friend. 

^'  His  name's  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain.  "  But  Lord,  it 
might  be  any  thing  for  the  matter  of  that,  with  such  a  mind 
as  his  !  " 

The  exact  idea  which  the  captain  attached  to  this  con- 
cluding piece  of  praise  he  did  not  further  elucidate  ;  neither 
did  Walter  seek  to  draw  it  forth.  For  on  his  beginning  to 
review,  with  the  vivacity  natural  to  himself  and  to  his  situa- 
tion, the  leading  points  in  his  own  affairs,  he  soon  discovered 
that  the  captain  had  relapsed  into  his  former  profound  state 
of  mind  ;  and  that  while  he  eyed  him  steadfastly  from 
beneath  his  bushy  eyebrows,  he  evidently  neither  saw  nor 
heard  him,  but  remained  immersed  in  cogitation. 

In  fact,  Captain  Cuttle  was  laboring  with  such  great  de- 
signs, that  far  from  being  aground,  he  soon  got  off  into  the 
deepest  of  water,  and  could  find  no  bottom  to  his  penetration. 
By  degrees  it  became  perfectly  plain  to  the  captain  that 
there  was  some  mistake  here  ;*that  it  was  undoubtedly  much 
more  likely  to  be  Walter's  mistake  than  his  ;  that  if  there 
were  really  any  West  India  scheme  afoot,  it  was  a  very  differ- 
ent one  from  what  Walter,  who  was  young  and  rash,  supposed  ; 
and  could  only  be  some  new  device  for  making  his  for- 
tune with  unusual  celerity.  "  Or  if  there  should  be  any  little 
hitch  between  'em,"  thought  the  captain,  meaning  between 
Walter  and  Mr.  Dombey,  "  it  only  wants  a  word  in  season 
from  a  friend  of  both  parties  to  set  it  right  and  smooth,  and 
make  all  taut  again."  Captain  Cuttle's  deduction  from 
these  considerations  was,  that  as  he  already  enjoyed  the 
pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,  from  having  spent  a  very 
agreeable  half-hour  in  his  company  at  Brighton  (on  the 
morning  when  they  borrowed  the  money)  ;  and  that,  as  a 
couple  of  men  of  the  world,  who  understood  each  other,  and 
were  mutually  disposed  to  make  things  comfortable,  could 
easily  arrange  any  little  difficulty  of  this  sort,  and  come  at  the 
real  facts  ;  the  friendly  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be,  with- 
out saying  any  thing  about  it  to  Walter  at  present,  just  to 
step  up  to  Mr.  Dombey's  house — say  to  the  servant, 
"  Would  you  be  so  good,  my  lad,  as  report  Cap'en  Cuttle 
here  ?  " — meet  Mr.  Dombey  in  a  confidential  spirit — hook 
him  by  the  button-hole — talk  it  over — make  it  all  right — and 
come  away  triumphant  ! 

As  these  reflections  presented  themselves  to  the  captain's 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  223 

mind,  and  by  slow  degrees  assumed  this  shape  and  form,  his 
visage  cleared  like  a  doubtful  morning  when  it  gives  place  to 
a  bright  noon.  His  eyebrows,  which  had  been  in  the  highest 
degree  portentous,  smoothed  their  rugged,  bristling  aspect, 
and  became  serene  ;  his  eyes,  which  had  been  nearly  closed 
in  the  severity  of  his  mental  exercise,  opened  freely  ;  a  smile 
which  had  been  at  first  but  three  specks— one  at  the  right- 
hand  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  one  at  the  corner  of  each  eye 
—gradually  over-spread  his  whole  face,  and  rippling  up  into 
his  forehead,  lifted  the  glazed  hat  :  as  if  that  too  had  been 
aground  with  Captain  Cuttle,  and  were  now,  like  him,  hap- 
pily afloat  again. 

Finally,  the  captain  left  off  biting  his  nails,  and  said, 
"  Now,  Wal'r,  my  boy,  you  may  help  me  on  with  them  slops." 
By  which  the  captain   meant  his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Walter  little  imagined  why  the  captain  was  so  particular 
in  the  arrangement'^of  his  cravat  as  to  twist  the  pendent  ends 
into  a  sort  of  pigtail,  and  pass-  them  through  a  massive  gold 
ring  with  a  picture  of  a  tomb  upon  it,  and  a  neat  iron  railing, 
and  a  tree,  in  memory  of  some  deceased  friend.  Nor  why 
the  captain  pulled  up  his  shirt  collar  to  the  utmost  limits 
allowed  bv  the  Irish  linen  below,  and  by  so  doing  decorated 
himself  wi'th  a  complete  pair  of  blinkers  ;  nor  why  he  changed 
his  shoes,  and  put  on  an  unparalleled  pair  of  ankle-jacks, 
which  he  only  wore  on  extraordinary  occasions.  The  cap- 
tain being  at'length  attired  to  his  own  complete  satisfaction, 
and  having  glanced  at  himself  from  head  to  foot  in  a  shaving- 
glass  which  he  removed  from  a  nail  for  that  purpose,  took  up 
his  knotted  stick,  and  said  he  was  ready. 

The  captain's  walk  was  more  complacent  than  usual  when 
thev  got  out  into  the  street  ;  but  this  Walter  supposed  to  be 
the'effect  of  the  ankle-jacks,  and  took  little  heed  of.  Before 
thev  had  gone  very  far,  they  encountered  a  woman  selling 
flowers  ;  when  the  captain,  stopping  short,  as  if  struck  by  a 
happy  idea,  made  a  purchase  of  the  largest  bundle  in  her 
basket  ;  a  most  glorious  nosegay,  fan-shaped,  some  two  feet 
and  a  half  round,  and  composed  of  all  the  j oiliest-looking 
flowers  that  blow. 

Armed  with  this  little  token  which  he  designed  for  Mr. 
Dombey,  Captain  Cuttle  walked  on  with  Walter  until  they 
reached  the  instrument-maker's  door,  before  which  they 
both  paused. 

"  You're  going  in  ?  "  said  Walter, 


224  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  captain,  who  felt  that  Walter  must  be 
got  rid  of  before  he  proceeded  any  further,  and  that  he  had 
better  time  his  projected  visit   somewhat  later  in  the  day. 

"  And  you  won't  forget  any  thing  ?  "  said  Walter. 

"  No,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  I'll  go  upon  my  walk  at  once,"  said  Walter,  "  and  then  I 
shall  be  out  of  the  way,  Captain  Cuttle." 

"  Take  a  good  long  'un,  my  lad  !  "  replied  the  captain, 
calling  after  him.  Walter  waved  his  hand  in  assent,  and 
went  his  way. 

His  way  was  nowhere  in  particular  ;  but  he  thought  he 
would  go  out  into  the  fields,  where  he  could  reflect  upon  the 
unknown  life  before  him,  and,  resting  under  some  tree,  ponder 
quietly.  He  knew  no  better  fields  than  those  near  Hamp- 
stead,  and  no  better  means  of  getting  at  them  than  by  pass- 
ing Mr.  Dombey's  house. 

It  was  as  stately  and  as  dark  as  ever  when  he  went  by  and 
glanced  up  at  its  frowning  front.  The  blinds  were  all  pulled 
down,  but  the  upper  windows  stood  wide  open,  and  the 
pleasant  air  stirring  those  curtains  and  waving  them  to  and 
fro,  was  the  only  sign  of  animation  in  the  whole  exterior. 
Walter  walked  softly  as  he  passed,  and  was  glad  when  he 
had  left  the  house  a  door  or  two  behind. 

He  looked  back  then  ;  with  the  interest  he  had  always 
felt  for  the  place  since  the  adventure  of  the  lost  child,  years 
ago  ;  and  looked  especially  at  those  upper  windows.  While 
he  was  thus  engaged,  a  chariot  drove  to  the  door,  and  a  portly 
gentleman  in  black,  with  a  heavy  watch-chain,  alighted, 
and  went  in.  When  he  afterward. remembered  this  gentle- 
man and  his  equipage  together,  Walter  had  no  doubt  he  was 
a  physician  ;  and  then  he  wondered  who  was  ill ;  but  the 
discovery  did  not  occur  to  him  until  he  had  walked  some 
distance,  thinking  listlessly  of  other  things. 

Though  still,  of  what  the  house  had  suggested  to  him; 
for  Walter  pleased  himself  with  thinking  that  perhaps  the 
time  might  come  when  the  beautiful  child  who  was  his  old 
friend,  and  had  always  been  so  grateful  to  him  and  so  glad 
to  see  him  since,  might  interest  her  brother  in  his  behalf, 
and  influence  his  fortunes  for  the  better.  He  liked  to  imag- 
ine this — more,  at  that  moment,  for  the  pleasure  of  imagin- 
ing her  continued  remembrance  of  him,  than  for  any  worldly 
profit  he  might  gain  ;  but  another  and  more  sober  fancy 
whispered   to  him   that  if  he  were  alive  then,  he  would  be 


DOiMBEY    AND    SON.  225 

beyond  the  sea  and  forgotten  ;  she  married,  rich,  proud, 
happv.  There  was  no  more  reason  why  she  should  remem- 
ber him  with  any  interest  in  such  an  altered  state  of  things, 
than  any  plaything  she  ever  had.     No,  not  so  much. 

Yet  Walter  so  idealized  the  pretty  child  whom  he  had 
found  wandering  in  the  rough  streets,  and  so  identified  her 
with  her  innocent  gratitude  of  that  night  and  the  simplicity 
and  truth  of  its  expression,  that  he  blushed  for  himself  as  a 
libeler  when  he  argued  that  she  could  ever  grow  proud.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  meditations  were  of  that  fantastic  order 
that  it  seemed  hardly  less  libelous  in  him  to  imagine  her 
grown  a  woman  ;  to  think  of  her  as  any  thing  but  the  same 
artless,  gentle,  winning  little  creature  that  she  had  been  in 
the  days  of  good  Mrs.  Brown.  In  a  word,  Walter  found  out 
that  to  reason  with  himself  about  Florence  at  all,  was  to 
.become  very  unreasonable  indeed  ;  and  that  he  could  do  no 
better  than  preserve  her  image  in  his  mind  as  something 
precious,  unattainable,  unchangeable,  and  indefinite — indefi- 
nite in  all  but  its  power  of  giving  him  pleasure,  and  restrain- 
ing him  like  an  angel's  hand  from  any  thing  unworthy. 

It  was  a  long  stroll  in  the  fields  that  Walter  took  that  day, 
listening  to  the  birds,  and  the  Sunday  bells,  and  the  softened 
murmur  of  the  town — breathing  sweet  scents  ;  glancing  some- 
times at  the  dim  horizon  beyond  which  his  voyage  and  his 
place  of  destination  lay  ;  then  looking  round  on  the  green 
English  grass  and  the  home  landscape.  But  he  hardly 
once  thought,  even  of  going  away,  distinctly  ;  and  seemed 
to  put  off  reflection  idly,  from  hour  to  hour,  and  from 
minute  to  minute,  while  he  yet  went  on  reflecting  all  the  time. 

Walter  had  left  the  fields  behind  him,  and  was  plodding 
homeward  in  the  same  abstracted  mood,  when  he  heard  a 
shout  from  a  man,  and  then  a  woman's  voice  calling  to  him 
loudly  by  name.  Turning  quickly  in  his  surprise,  he  saw  that 
a  hackney-coach,  going  in  the  contrary  direction,  had 
stopped  at  no  great  distance  ;  that  the  coachman  was  looking 
back  from  his  box  and  making  signals  to  him  with  his  whip  ; 
and  that  a  young  woman  inside  was  leaning  out  of  the  window, 
and  beckoning  with  immense  energy.  Running  up  to  this 
coach,  he  found  that  the  young  woman  was  Miss  Nipper,  and 
that  Miss  Nipper  was  in  such  a  flutter  as  to  be  almost  beside 
herself. 

"  Staggs's  Gardens,  Mr.  Walter  !  "  said  Miss  Nipper  ;  "  if 
you  please,  oh  do  !  " 


226  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

*'  Eh  ? "  cried  Walter  ;  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you  please  !  "  said 
Susan. 

"  There  !  "  cried  the  coachman,  appealing  to  Walter,  with  a 
■sort  of  exulting  despair  ;  "  that's  the  way  the  young  lady's 
been  agoin'  on  for  up'ard  of  a  mortal  hour,  and  me  contini- 
vally  backing  out  of  no  thoroughfares,  where  she  would  drive 
up.  I've  had  a  many  fares  in  this  coach,  first  and  last,  but 
never  such  a  fare  as  her." 

"  Do  you  want  to  go  to  Staggs's  Gardens,  Susan  ?  "  inquired 
Walter. 

"  Ah  !  She  wants  to  go  there  !  Where  is  it  ?  "  growled 
the  coachman. 

"  I  don't  know  where  it  is  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  wildly. 
"  Mr.  Walter,  I  was  there  once  myself,  along  with  Miss 
Floy  and  our  poor  darling  Master  Paul,  on  the  very  day 
when  you  found  Miss  Floy  in  the  City,  for  we  lost  her  com- 
ing home^  Mrs.  Richards  and  me,  and  a  mad  bull,  and  Mrs. 
Richards's  eldest,  and  though  I  went  there  afterward,  I 
can't  remember  where  it  is  ;  I  think  it's  sunk  into  the  ground. 
Oh,  Mr.  Walter,  don't  desert  me,  Staggs's  Gardens,  if  you 
please  !  Miss  Floy's  darling — all  our  darlings — little,  meek, 
meek  Master  Paul  !     Oh,  Mr.  Walter  !  " 

''  Good    God  !  "  cried  Walter.     'Ms  he  very  ill  ?  " 
"  The  pretty  flower  !  "  cried  Susan,   wringing  her  hands, 
"  has  took  the  fancy  that  he'd  like  to  see  his  old  nurse,  and 
I've  come  to  bring  her  to   his  bedside,  Mrs.  Staggs,  of  Polly 
Toodle's  Gardens,  some  one  pray  !  " 

Greatly  moved  by  what  he  heard,  and  catching  Susan's 
earnestness  immediately,  Walter,  now  that  he  understood 
the  nature  of  her  errand,  dashed  into  it  with  such  ardor  that 
the  coachman  had  enough  to  do  to  follow  closely  as  he  ran 
before,  inquiring  here  and  there  and  everywhere  the  way  to 
Staggs's  Gardens. 

There  was  no  such  place  as  Staggs's  Gardens.  It  had 
vanished  from  the  earth.  Where  the  old  rotten  summer- 
houses  once  had  stood,  palaces  now  reared  their  heads,  and 
granite  columns  of  gigantic  girth  opened  a  vista  to  the  rail- 
way world  beyond.  The  miserable  waste  ground,  where  the 
refuse-matter  had  been  heaped  of  yore,  was  swallowed  up  and 
gone  ;  and  in  its  frowzy  stead  were  tiers  of  warehouses, 
crammed  with  rich  goods  and  costly  merchandise.  The  old 
by- streets  now  swarmed  with   passengers  and  vehicles  of 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  227 

every  kind :  the  new  streets  that  had  stopped  disheartened  in 
the  mud  and  wagon-ruts,  formed  towns  within  themselves, 
originating  wholesome  comforts  and  conveniences  belonging 
to  themselves,  and  never  tried  nor  thought  of  until  they 
sprung  into  existence.  Bridges  that  had  led  to  nothing,  led 
to  villas,  gardens,  churches,  healthy  public  walks.  The  car- 
casses of  houses,  and  beginnings  of  new  thoroughfares,  had 
started  off  upon  the  line  at  steam's  own  speed,  and  shot  away 
into  the  country  in  a  monster  train. 

As  to  the  neighborhood  which  had  hesitated  to  acknowl- 
edge the  railroad  in  its  straggling  days,  that  had  grown  wise 
and  penitent,  as  any  Christian  might  in  such  a  case,  and  now 
boasted  of  its  powerful  and  prosperous  relation.  There  were 
railway  patterns  in  its  drapers'  shops,  and  railway  journals  in 
the  windows  of  its  newsmen.  There  were  railway  hotels, 
coffee-houses,  lodging-houses,  boarding-houses  ;  railway 
plans,  maps,  views,  wrappers,  bottles,  sandwich  boxes,  and 
time-tables  ;  railway  hackney-coach  and  cab-stands  ;  railway 
omnibuses,  railway  streets  and  buildings,  railway  hangers-on 
and  parasites,  and  flatterers  out  of  all  calculation.  There 
was  even  railway  time  observed  in  clocks,  as  if  the 
sun  itself  had  given  in.  Among  the  vanquished  was  the 
master  chimney-sweeper,  whilom  incredulous  at  Staggs's 
Gardens,  who  now  lived  in  a  stuccoed  house  three  stories 
high,  and  gave  himself  out,  with  golden  flourishes  upon  a 
varnished  board,  as  contractor  for  the  cleansing  of  railway 
chimneys  by  machinery. 

To  and  from  the  heart  of  this  great  change,  all  day  and 
night,  throbbing  currents  gushed  and  returned  incessantly 
like  its  life's  blood.  Crowds  of  people  and  mountains  of 
goods,  departing  and  arriving  scores  upon  scores  of  times  in 
every  four-and-twenty  hours,  produced  a  fermentation  in  the 
place  that  was  .always  in  action.  The  very  houses  seemed 
disposed  to  pack  up  and  take  trips.  Wonderful  Members 
of  Parliament,  who,  little  more  than  twenty  years  before,  had 
made  themselves  merry  with  the  wild  railroad  theories  of 
engineers,  and  given  them  the  liveliest  rubs  in  cross-examina- 
tion, went  down  into  the  North  with  their  watches  in  their 
hands,  and  sent  on  messages  before  by  the  electric  telegraph, 
to  say  that  they  were  coming.  Night  and  day  the  conquer- 
ing engines  rumbled  at  their  distant  work,  or,  advancing 
smoothly  to  their  journey's  end,  and  gliding  like  tame  dragons 
into  the  allotted   corners  grooved  out  to  the  inch  for  their 


228  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

reception,  stood  bubbling  and  trembling  there,  making  the 
walls  quake,  as  if  they  were  dilating  with  the  secret  knowl- 
edge of  great  powers  yet  unsuspected  in  them,  and  strong 
purposes  not  yet  achieved. 

But  Staggs's  Gardens  had  been  cut  up  root  and  branch. 
Oh  woe  the  day  when  "  not  a  rood  of  English  ground  " — laid 
out  in  Staggs's  Gardens — is  secure  ! 

At  last,  after  much  fruitless  inquiry,  Walter,  followed  b} 
the  coach  and  Susan,  found  a  man  who  had  once  resided  in 
that  vanished  land,  and  who  was  no  other  than  the  master 
sweep  before  referred  to,  grown  stout,  and  knocking  a  double 
knock  at  his  own  door.  He  knowed  Toodle,  he  said,  well. 
Belonged  to  the  railroad,  didn't  he  ? 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  !  "  cried  Susan  Nipper  from  the  coach  win- 
dow. 

Where  did  he  live  now  ?  hastily  inquired  Walter. 

He  lived  in  the  company's  own  buildings,  second  turning 
to  the  right,  down  the  yard,  cross  over,  and  take  the  second 
on  the  right  again.  It  was  number  eleven  ;  they  couldn't 
mistake  it ;  but  if  they  did,  they  had  only  to  ask  for  Toodle, 
engine  fireman,  and  any  one  would  show  them  which  was 
his  house.  At  this  unexpected  stroke  of  success,  Susan  Nip- 
per dismounted  from  the  coach  with  all  speed,  took  Walter's 
arm,  and  set  off  at  a  breathless  pace  on  foot  ;  leaving  j;he 
coach  there  to  await  their  return. 

"  Has  the  Uttle  boy  been  long  ill,  Susan  ? "  inquired  Wal- 
ter, as  they  hurried  on. 

*' Ailing  for  a  deal  of  time,  but  no  one  knew  how  much," 
said  Susan  ;  adding,  with  excessive  sharpness,  "  Oh,  them 
Blimbers  !  " 

*' Blimbers  ?"  echoed  Walter. 

"  I  couldn't  forgive  myself  at  such  a  time  as  this,  Mr,  Wal- 
ter," said  Susan,  "  and  when  there's  so  much  serious  distress 
to  think  about,  if  I  rested  hard  on  any  one,  especially  on  them 
that  little  darling  Paul  speaks  well  of,  but  I  //lay  wish  that 
the  family  was  set  to  work  in  a  stony  soil  to  make  new  roads, 
and  that  iMiss  Blimber  went  in  front,  and  had  the  pickax  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  then  took  breath,  and  went  on  faster  than 
before,  as  if  this  extraordinary  aspiration  had  relieved  her. 
Walter,  who  had  by  this  time  no  breath  of  his  own  to  spare, 
hurried  along  without  asking  any  more  questions  ;  and  they 
soon,  in  their  impatience,  burst  in  at  a  little  door  and  came 
into  a  clean  parlor  full  of  children. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  229 

"  Where's  Mrs.  Richards  !  "  exclaimed  Susan  Nipper,  look- 
ing round.  "  Oh  Mrs.  Richards,  Mrs.  Richards,  come  along 
with  me,  my  dear  creetur  !  " 

"  Why,  if  it  ain't  Susan  !  "  cried  Polly,  rising,  with  her 
honest  face  and  motherly  figure,  from  among  the  group,  in 
great  surprise, 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Richards,  it's  me,"  said  Susan,  "  and  I  wish  it 
wasn't,  though  I  may  not  seem  to  flatter  when  I  say  so,  but 
little  Master  Paul  is  very  ill,  and  told  his  pa  to-day  that  he 
would  like  to  see  the  face  of  his  old  nurse,  and  him  and  Miss 
Floy  hope  you'll  come  along  with  nie — and  Mr.  Walter,  Mrs. 
Richards — forgetting  what  is  past,  and  do  a  kindness  to  the 
sweet  dear  that  is  withering  away.  Oh,  Mrs.  Richards,  with- 
ering away  !"  Susan  Nipper  crying,  Polly  shed  tears  to  see 
her,  and  to  hear  what  she  had  said  ;  and  all  the  children  gatn- 
ered  round  (including  numbers  of  new  babies)  ;  and  Mr. 
Toodle,  who  had  just  come  home  from  Birmingham,  and  was 
eating  his  dinner  out  of  a  basin,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  put  on  his  wife's  bonnet  and  shawl  for  her,  which  were 
hanging  up  behind  the  door  ;  then  tapped  her  on  the  back, 
and  said,  with  more  fatherly  feeling  than  eloquence,  "  Polly  ! 
cut  away  !  " 

So  they  got  back  to  the  coach  long  before  the  coachman 
expected  them  ;  and  Walter,  putting  Susan  and  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards inside,  took  his  seat  on  the  box  himself,  that  there  might 
be  no  more  mistakes,  and  deposited  them  safely  in  the  hall  of 
Mr.  Dombey's  house — where,  by  the  by,  he  saw  a  mighty 
nosegay  lying,  which  reminded  him  of  the  one  Captain  Cuttle 
had  purchased  in  his  company  that  morning.  He  would 
have  lingered  to  knov>^  more  of  the  young  invalid,  or  waited 
any  length  of  time  to  see  if  he  could  render  the  least  service  ; 
but,  painfully  sensible  that  such  conduct  would  be  looked 
upon  by  Mr.  Dombey  as  presumptuous  and  forward,  he 
turned  slowly,  sadly,  anxiously,  away. 

He  had  not  gone  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  door,  when 
a  man  came  running  after  him  and  begged  him  to  return. 
Walter  retraced  his  steps  as  quickly  as  he  could,  and  entered 
the  gloomy  house  with  a  sorrowful  foreboding. 


230  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHAT    THE    WAVES   WERE    ALWAYS    SAYING. 

Paul  had  never  risen  from  his  little  bed.  He  lay  there, 
listening  to  the  noises  in  the  street,  quite  tranquilly  ;  not  car- 
ing much  how  the- time  went,  but  watching  it  and  watching 
every  thing  about  him  with  observing  eyes. 

When  the  sunbeams  struck  into  his  room  through  the  rust- 
ling blinds,  and  quivered  on  the  opposite  wall  like  golden 
water,  he  knew  that  evening  was  coming  on,  and  that  the 
sky  was  red  and  beautiful.  As  the  reflection  died  away,  and 
a  gloom  went  creeping  up  the  wall,  he  watched  it  deepen, 
deepen,  deepen,  into  night.  Then  he  thought  how  the  long 
streets  were  dotted  with  lamps,  and  how  the  peaceful  stars 
were  shining  overhead.  His  fancy  had  a  strange  tendency 
to  wander  to  the  river,  which  he  knew  was  flowing  through 
the  great  city  ;  and  now  he  thought  how  black  it  was,  and 
how  deep  it  would  look,  reflecting  the  hosts  of  stars — and 
more  than  all,  how  steadily  it  rolled  away  to  meet  the  sea. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  night,  and  footsteps  in  the  street 
became  so  rare  that  he  could  hear' them  coming,  count  them 
as  they  passed,  and  lose  them  in  the  hollow  distance,  he 
would  lie  and  watch  the  many  colored  ring  about  the  candle, 
and  wait  patiently  for  day.  His  only  trouble  was,  the  swift 
and  rapid  river.  He  felt  forced,  sometimes,  to  try  to  stop  it 
— to  stem  it  with  his  childish  hands — or  choke  its  way  with 
sand — and  when  he  saw  it  coming  on,  resistless,  he  cried  out  ! 
But  a  word  from  Florence,  who  was  always  at  his  side, 
restored  him  to  himself  ;  and  leaning  his  poor  head  upon  her 
breast,  he  told  Floy  of  his  dream,  and  smiled. 

When  day  began  to  dawn  again,  he  watched  for  the  sun  ; 
and  when  its  cheerful  light  began  to  sparkle  in  the  room,  he 
pictured  to  himself — pictured  !  he  saw — the  high  church 
towers  rising  up  into  the  morning  sky,  the  town  reviving,  wak- 
ing, starting  into  life  once  more,  the  river  glistening  as  it 
rolled  (but  rolling  fast  as  ever),  and  the  country  bright  with 
dew.  Familiar  sounds  and  cries  came  by  degrees  into  the 
street  below  ;  the  servants  in  the  house  were  roused  and  busy  ; 
faces  looked  in  at  the  door,  and  voices  asked  his  attendants 
softly  how  he  was.  Paul  always  answered  for  himself,  "  I  am 
better.    I  am  a  great  deal  better,  thank  you!     Tell  papa  so  !  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  231 

By  little  and  little,  he  got  tired  of  the  bustle  of  the  day, 
the  noise  of  carriages  and  carts,  and  people  passing  and  re- 
passing ;  and  would  fall  asleep,  or  be  troubled  with  a  restless 
and  uneasy  sense  again — the  child  could  hardly  tell  whether 
this  were  in  his  sleeping  or  his  waking  moments — of  that 
rushing  river.  ''  Why,  will  it  never  stop,  Floy  ?  "  he  would 
sometimes  ask  her.     "  It  is  bearing  me  away,  I  think  !  " 

But  Floy  could  always  soothe  and  re-assure  him  ;  and  it 
was  his  daily  delight  to  make  her  lay  her  head  down  on  his 
pillow  and  take  some  rest. 

"  You  are  always  watching  me,  Floy.  Let  me  watch  you^ 
now  ?  "  Thev  would  prop  him  up  with  cushions  in  a  corner 
of  his  bed,  and  there  he  would  recline  the  while  she  lay  beside 
him  :  bending  forward  oftentimes  to  kiss  her,  and  whispering 
to  those  who  were  near  that  she  was  tired,  and  how  she  had 
sat  up  so  many  nights  beside  him. 

Thus  the  flush  of  the  day,  in  its  heat  and  light,  would  grad- 
ually decline  ;  and  again  the  golden  water  would  be  dancing 
on  the  wall. 

He  was  visited  by  as  many  as  three  grave  doctors — they 
used  to  assemble  down  stairs,  and  come  up  together — and 
the  room  was  so  quiet,  and  Paul  was  so  observant  of  them 
(though  he  never  asked  of  any  body  what  they  said),  that 
he  even  knew  the  difference  in  the  sound  of  their  watches. 
But  his  interest  centered  in  Sir  Parker  Peps,  who  always 
took  his  seat  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  For  Paul  had  heard 
them  sav  long  ago  that  that  gentleman  had  been  with  his 
mamma  when  she  clasped  Florence  in  her  arms,  and  died. 
And  he  could  not  forget  it  now.  He  liked  him  for  it.  He 
was  not  afraid. 

The  people  round  him  changed  as  unaccountably  as  on 
that  first  night  at  Doctor  Blimber's — except  Florence  ;  Flor- 
ence never  changed — and  what  had  been  Sir  Parker  Peps 
was  now  his  father,  sitting  with  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
Old  Mrs.  Pipchin  dozing  in  an  easy-chair,  often  changed  to 
Miss  Tox,  or  his  aunt  ;  and  Paul  was  quite  content  to  shut 
his  eyes  again,  and  see  what  happened  next  without  emotion. 
But  this  figure,  with  its  head  upon  its  hand,  returned  so  often, 
and  remained  so  long,  and  sat  so  still  and  solemn,  never 
speaking,  never  being  spoken  to,  and  rarely  lifting  up  its 
face,  that  Paul  began  to  wonder  languidly,  if  it  were  real  ; 
and  in  the  night-time  saw  it  sitting  there,  with  fear. 
"  Floy  !  "  he  said.     "  What  is  that  ?  " 


22,2  DOxMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Where,  dearest  ?  " 

"  There  !  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed." 

*'  There's  nothing  there,  except  papa  !  " 

The  figure  lifted  up  its  head,  and  rose,  and  coming  to  the 
bedside,  said  :  "  My  own  boy  !  Don't  you  know  me  ?  " 

Paul  looked  it  in  the  face,  and  thought,  was  this  his 
father  ?  But  the  face,  so  altered  to  his  thinking,  thrilled 
while  he  gazed,  as  if  it  were  in  pain  ;  and  before  he  could 
reach  out  both  his  hands  to  take  it  between  them,  and  draw 
it  tov/ard  him,  the  figure  turned  away  quickly  from  the  little 
bed,  and  went  out  at  the  door. 

Paul  looked  at  Florence  with  a  fluttering  heart,  but  he 
knew  what  she  was  going  to  say,  and  stopped  her  with  his 
face  against  her  lips.  The  next  time  he  observed  the  figure 
sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  bed,  he  called  to  it. 

"  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me,  dear  papa  !  Indeed  I  am  quite 
happy  !  " 

His  father  coming  and  bending  down  to  him — which  he 
did  quickly,  and  without  first  pausing  by  the  bedside — Paul 
held  him  round  the  neck,  and  repeated  those  words  to  him 
several  times,  and  very  earnestly  ;  and  Paul  never  saw  him 
in  his  room  again  at  any  time,  whether  it  were  day  or  night, 
but  he  called  out,  ''  Don't  be  so  sorry  for  me  !  Indeed  I  am 
quite  happy  !  "  This  was  the  beginning  of  his  always  saying 
in  the  morning  that  he  was  a  great  deal  better,  and  that  they 
were  to  tell  his  father  so. 

How  many  times  the  golden  water  danced  upon  the  wall  ; 
how  many  nights  the  dark,  dark  river  rolled  toward  the  sea  in 
spite  of  him  ;  Paul  never  counted,  never  sought  to  know.  If 
their  kindness  or  his  sense  of  it  could  have  increased,  they 
were  more  kind,  and  he  more  grateful  every  day  ;  but  whether 
they  were  many  days  or  few,  appeared  of  little  moment  now, 
to  the  gentle  boy. 

One  night  he  had  been  thinking  of  his  mother  and  her 
picture  in  the  drawing-room  down  stairs,  and  thought  she 
must  have  lOved  sweet  Florence  better  than  his  father  did, 
to  have  held  her  in  her  arms  when  she  felt  that  she  was  dying 
— for  even  he,  her  brother,  who  had  such  dear  love  for  her, 
could  have  no  greater  wish  than  that.  The  train  of  thought 
suggested  to  him  to  inquire  if  he  had  ever  seen  his  mother  ; 
for  he  could  not  remember  whether  they  had  told  him  yes 
or  no,  the  river  running  very  fast,  and  confusing  his  mind. 

''  Floy,  did  I  ever  see  mamma  ?  " 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  233 

"  No,  darling  ;  why  ?  " 

**  Did  I  ever  see  any  kind  face,  like  mamma's,  looking  at 
me  when  I  was  a  baby,  Floy  ?  " 

He  asked,  incredulously,  as  if  he  had  some  vision  of  a 
face  before  him. 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  !  " 

"  Whose,  Floy  ?  " 

"  Your  old  nurse's.     Often." 

"  And  where  is  my  old  nurse  ?  "  said  Paul.  "  Is  she  dead 
too  ?  Floy,  are  we  «//dead,  except  you  ?  " 

There  was  a  hurry  in  the  room,  for  an  instant — longer, 
perhaps  ;  but  it  seemed  no  more — then  all  was  still  again  ; 
and  Florence,  with  her  face  quite  colorless,  but  smiling,  held 
his  head  upon  her  arm.    Her  arm  trembled  very  much. 

"  Show  me  that  old  nurse,  Floy,  if  you  please  !  " 

"  She  is  not  here,  darling.     She  shall  come  to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  Floy  !" 

Paul  closed  his  eyes  with  those  words,  and  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke,  the  sun  was  high,  and  the  broad  day  was 
clear  and  warm.  He  lay  a  little,  looking  at  the  windows, 
which  were  open,  and  the  curtains  rustling  in  the  air,  and 
waving  to  and  fro  ;  then  he  said,  "  Floy,  is  it  to-morrow  ? 
Is  she  come  ?  " 

Some  one  seemed  to  go  in  quest  of  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
Susan.  Paul  thought  he  heard  her  telling  him,  when  he  had 
closed  his  eyes  again,  that  she  would  soon  be  back  ;  but  he 
did  not  open  them  to  see.  She  kept  her  word — perhaps  she 
had  never  been  away — but  the  next  thing  that  happened  was 
a  noise  of  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  and  then  Paul  woke — woke 
mind  and  body — and  sat  upright  in  his  bed.  He  saw  them 
now  about  him.  There  was  no  gray  mist  before  them,  as 
there  had  been  sometimes  in  the  night.  He  knew  them 
every  one,  and  called  them  by  their  names. 

"  And  who  is  this  ?  Is  this  my  old  nurse  ?  "  said  the  child, 
regarding  with  a  radiant  smile  a  figure  coming  in. 

Yes,  yes.  No  other  stranger  would  have  shed  those  tears 
at  sight  of  him,  and  called  him  her  dear  boy,  her  pretty  boy, 
her  own  poor  blighted  child.  No  other  woman  would  have 
stooped  down  by  his  bed,  and  taken  up  his  wasted  hand,  and 
put  it  to  her  lips  and  breast,  as  one  who  had  some  right  to 
fondle  it.  No  other  woman  would  have  so  forjgotten  every 
body  there  but  him  and  Floy,  and  been  so  full  of  tenderness 
and  pity. 


234  DOMBEY   AND   SON, 

"  Floy  !  this  is  a  kind,  good  face  !  "  said  Paul.  "  I  am 
glad  to  see  it  again.     Don't  go  away,  old  nurse  !  Stay  here." 

His  senses  were  all  quickened,  and  he  heard  a  name  he 
knew. 

"  Who  was  that,  who  said  '  Walter  ! '  "  he  asked,  looking 
round.  *'  Some  one  said  Walter.  Is  he  here  ?  I  should  like 
to  see  him  very  much." 

Nobody  replied  directly  ;  but  his  father  soon  said  to  Susan, 
"  Call  him  back,  then  :  let  him  come  up!"  After  a  short 
pause  of  expectation,  during  which  he  looked  with  smiling 
interest  and  wonder  on  his  nurse,  and  saw  that  she  had  not 
forgotten  Floy,  Walter  was  brought  into  the  room.  His  open 
face  and  manner,  and  his  cheerful  eyes,  had  always  made 
him  a  favorite  with  Paul  ;  and  when  Paul  saw  him,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand,  and  said  *'  Good-by  !  " 

"  Good-by,  my  child  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pipchin,  hurrying  to 
his  bed's  head.     "  Not  good-by  ?  " 

For  an  instant,  Paul  looked  at  her  with  the  wistful  face 
with  which  he  had  so  often  gazed  upon  her  in  his  corner  by 
the  fire.  "  Ah  yes,"  he  said,  placidly,  "  good-by  !  W^alter, 
dear,  good-by  !  " — turning  his  head  to  where  he  stood,  and 
putting  out  his  hand  again.     "  Where  is  papa  ?  " 

He  felt  his  father's  breath  upon  his  cheek,  before  the 
words  had  parted  from  his  lips. 

"  Remember  Walter,  dear  papa,"  he  whispered,  looking  in 
his  face.  "  Remember  Walter.  I  was  fond  of  Walter  !  " 
The  feeble  hand  waved  in  the  air,  as  if  it  cried  *'  good-by  !  " 
to  Walter  once  again. 

"  Now  lay  me  down,"  he  said,"and  Floy,  come  close  to  me, 
and  let  me  see  you  ?  " 

Sister  and  brother  wound  their  arms  around  each  other, 
and  the  golden  light  came  streaming  in,  and  fell  upon  them, 
locked  together. 

^'  How  fast  the  river  runs,  between  its  green  banks  and  the 
rushes,  Floy  !  But  it's  very  near  the  sea.  I  hear  the  waves  ! 
They  always  said  so  !  " 

Presently  he  told  her  that  the  motion  of  the  boat  upon  the 
stream  was  lulling  him  to  rest.  How  green  the  banks  were 
now,  how  bright  the  flowers  growing  on  them,  and  how  tall 
the  rushes  !  Now  the  boat  was  out  at  sea,  but  gliding  smoothly 
on.  And  now  there  was  a  shore  before  him.  Who  stood 
on  the  bank  ! — 

He  put  his  hands  together,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  at 


DOxMBEY   AND    SON.  235 

his  prayers.     He  did  not  remove  his  arms  to  do  it  ;  but  they 
saw  him  fold  them  so,  behind  her  neck, 

"  Mamma  is  like  you,  Floy.  I  know  her  by  the  face  ! 
But  tell  them  that  the  print  upon  the  stairs  at  school  is  not 
divine  enough.  The  light  about  the  head  is  shining  on  me 
as  I  go  !  " 

The  golden  ripple  on  the  wall  came  back  again,  and  noth- 
ing else  stirred  in  the  room.  The  old,  old  fashion  !  The 
fashion  that  came  in  with  our  first  garments,  and  will  last 
unchanged  until  our  race  has  run  its  course,  and  the  wide 
firmament  is  rolled  up  like  a  scroll  The  old,  old  fashion — 
Death  ! 

Oh  thank  God,  all  who  see  it,  for  that  older  fashion  yet,  of 
Immortality  !  And  look  upon  us,  angels  of  young  children, 
with  regards  not  quite  estranged^  when  the  swift  river  bears 
us  to  the  ocean  ! 


CHAPTER  XVir. 

CAPTAIN    CUTTLE    DOES    A    LITTLE    BUSINESS    FOR    THE    YOUNG 

PEOPLE. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  the  exercise  of  tnat  surprising  talent 
for  deep-laid  and  unfathomable  scheming,  with  which  (as  is 
not  unusual  in  men  of  transparent  simplicity)  he  sincerely 
believed  himself  to  be  endowed  by  nature,  had  gone  to  Mr. 
Dombey's  house  on  the  eventful  Sunday,  winking  all  the 
way  as  a  vent  for  his  superfluous  sagacity,  and  had  presented 
himself  in  the  full  luster  of  the  ankle-jacks  before  the  eves  of 
Towlinson.  Hearing  from  that  individual,  to  his  great  con- 
cern, of  the  impending  calamity.  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his 
delicacy,  sheered  off  again,  confounded  ;  merely  handing 
in  the  nosegay  as  a  small  mark  of  his  solicitude,  and  leaving 
his  respectful  compliments  for  the  family  in  general,  which 
he  accompanied  v>'ith  an  expression  of  his  hope  that  they 
would  lay  their  heads  well  to  the  wind  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, and  a  friendly  intimation  that  he  would  ''  look 
up  again  "  to-morrow. 

The  captain's  compliments  were  never  heard  of  any  more. 
The  captain's  nosegay,  after  lying  in  the  hall  all  night,  was 
swept  into  the  dust-bin  next  morning  ;  and  the  captain's 


236  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

sly  arrangement,  involved  in  one  catastrophe  with  greater 
hopes  and  loftier  designs,  was  crushed  to  pieces.  So,  when 
an  avalanche  bears  down  a  mountain  forest,  twigs  and  bushes 
suffer  with  the  trees,  and  all  perish  together. 

When  Walter  returned  home  on  the  Sunday  evening  from 
his  long  walk,  and  its  memorable  close,  he  was  too  much 
occupied  at  first  by  the  tidings  he  had  to  give  them,  and  by 
the  emotions  naturally  awakened  in  his  breast  by  the  scene 
thtough  which  he  had  passed,  to  observe  either  that  his  uncle 
was  evidently  unacquainted  with  the  intelligence  the  captain 
had  undertaken  to  impart,  or  that  the  captain  made  signals 
with  his  hook,  warning  him  to  avoid  the  subject.  Not  that 
the  captain's  signals  were  calculated  to  have  proved  very 
comprehensible,  however  attentively  observed  ;  for,  like 
those  Chinese  sages  who  are  said  in  their  conferences  to 
write  certain  learned  words  in  the  air  that  are  wholly  impos- 
sible of  pronunciation,  the  captain  made  such  waves  and 
flourishes  as  nobody,  without  a  previous  knowledge  of  his 
mystery,  would  have  been  at  all  likely  to  understand. 

Captain  Cuttle,  however,  becoming  cognizant  of  what  had 
happened,  relinquished  these  attempts,  as  he  perceived  the 
slender  chances  that  now  existed  of  his  being  able  to  obtain 
a  little  easy  chat  with  Mr.  Dombey  before  the  period  of 
Walter's  departure.  But  in  admitting  to  himself,  with  a 
disappointed  andcr  est-fallen  countenance,  that  Sol  Gills  must 
be  told,  and  that  Walter  must  go — taking  the  case  for  the 
present  as  he  found  it,  and  not  having  it  enlightened  or  im- 
proved beforehand  by  the  knowing  management  of  a  friend 
— the  captain  still  felt  an  unabated  confidence  that  he,  Ned 
Cuttle,  was  the  man  for  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  that,  to  set 
fortunes  quite  square,  nothing  was  wanted  but  that  they  two 
should  come  together.  For  the  captain  never  could  forget 
how  well  he  and  Mr.  Dombey  had  got  on  at  Brighton  ;  with 
what  nicety  each  of  them  had  put  in  a  word  when  it  was 
wanted  ;  how  exactly  they  had  taken  one  another's  measure  ; 
nor  how  Ned  Cuttle  had  pointed  out  that  resource  in  the 
first  extremity,  and  had  brought  the  interview  to  the  desired 
termination.  On  all  these  grounds  the  captain  soothed 
himself  with  thinking  that  though  Ned  Cuttle  was  forced 
by  the  pressure  of  events  to  "  stand  by  "  almost  useless  for 
the  present,  Ned  would  fetch  up  with  a  wet  sail  in  good 
time,  and  carry  all  before  him. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  good-natured  delusion.  Captain 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  237 

Cuttle  even  went  so  far  as  to  revolve  in  his  own  oosom,  while 
he  sat  looking  at  Walter  and  listening  with  a  tear  on  his 
shirt-collar  to  what  he  related,  whether  it  might  not  be  at 
once  genteel  and  politic  to  give  Mr.  Dombey  a  verbal  invita- 
tion, whenever  they  should  meet,  to  come  and  cut  his  mut- 
ton in  Brig  Place  on  some  day  of  his  own  naming,  and  enter 
on  the  question  of  his  young  friend's  prospects  over  a  social 
glass.  But  the  uncertain  temper  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and 
the  possibility  of  her  setting  up  her  rest  in  the  passtge 
during  such  an  entertainment,  and  there  delivering  some 
homily  of  an  uncomplimentary  nature,  operated  as  a  check 
on  the  captain's  hospitable  thoughts,  and  rendered  him 
timid  of  giving  them  encouragement. 

One  fact  was  quite  clear  to  the  captain,  as  Walter,  sitting 
thoughtfully  over  his  untasted  dinner,  dwelt  on  all  that  had 
happened  ;' namely,  that  however  Walter's  modesty  might 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  perceiving  it  himself,  he  was,  as  one 
might  say,  a  member  of  Mr.  Dombey "s  family."  He  had 
been,  in  his  own  person,  connected  with  the  incident  he  so 
pathetically  described  ;  he  had  been  by  name  remembered 
and  commended  on  close  association  with  it;  and  his  fortunes 
must  have  a  particular  interest  in  his  employer's  eyes.  If 
the  captain  had  any  lurking  doubt  whatever  of  his  own 
conclusions,  he  had  not  the  least  doubt  that  they  were 
good  conclusions  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the  instrument- 
maker.  Therefore  he  availed  himself  of  so  favorable  a  mo- 
ment for  breaking  the  West  Indian  intelligence  to  his  old 
friend,  as  a  piece  of  extraordinary  preferment  ;  declaring  that 
for  his  part  he  would  freely  give  a  hundred  thousand  pounds 
(if  he  had  it)  for  Walter's  gain  in  the  long  run,  and  that  he  had 
no  doubt  such  an  investment  would  yield  a  handsome  pre- 
mium. 

Solomon  Gills  was  at  first  stunned  by  the  communication, 
which  fell  upon  the  little  back-parlor  like  a  thunder-bolt,  and 
tore  up  the  hearth  savagely.  But  the  captain  flashed  such 
golden  prospects  before  his  dim  sight  :  hinted  so  mysteriously 
at  Whittingtonian  consequences  :  laid  such  emphasis  on 
what  Walter  had  just  now  told  them  :  and  appealed  to  it  so 
confidently  as  a  corroboration  of  his  predictions,  and  a 
great  advance  toward  the  realization  of  the  romantic  legend 
of  Lovely  Peg  :  that  he  bewildered  the  old  man.  Walter, 
for  his  part,  feigned  to  be  so  full  of  hope  and  ardor,  and  ss 
sure  of  coming  home  again  soon^  and  backed  up  the  captain 


238  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

with  such  expressive  shakings  of  his  head  and  rubbings  ot 
his  hands,  that  Solomon,  looking  first  at  him  and  then  at 
Captain  Cuttle,  began  to  think  he  ought  to  be  transported 
with  joy. 

*'  But  I'm  behind  the  time,  you  understand,"  he  observed 
in  apology,  passing  his  hand  nervously  down  the  whole  row 
of  bright  buttons  on  his  coat,  and  then  up  again,  as  if  they 
were  beads  and  he  were  telling  them  twice  over  ;  '*  and  I 
wotld  rather  have  my  dear  boy  here.  It's  an  old-fashioned 
notion,  I  dare  say.  He  was  always  fond  of  the  sea.  He's" 
— and  he  looked  wistfully  at  Walter — "  he's  glad  to  go." 

*'  Uncle  Sol  !  "  cried  Walter,  quickly,  ''  if  you  say  that,  I 
wont  go.  No,  Captain  Cuttle,  I  won't.  If  my  uncle  thinks 
I  could  be  glad  to  leave  him,  though  I  was  going  to  be  made 
governor  of  all  the  islands  in  the  West  Indies,  that's  enough. 
I'm  a  fixture." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain.  ''  Steady  !  Sol  Gills, 
take  an  observation  of  your  nevy." 

Following  with  his  eyes  the  majestic  action  of  the  captain's 
hook,  the  old  man  looked  at  Walter. 

"  Here  is  a  certain  craft,"  said  the  captain,  with  a  magnif- 
icent sense  of  the  allegory  into  which  he  was  soaring, 
"  agoing  to  put  out  on  a  certain  voyage.  What  name  is  wrote 
upon  that  craft  indelibly?  Is  it  llie  Gay  2  or,"  said  the 
captain,  raising  his  voice  as  much  as  to  say,  observe  the 
point  of  this,  "  is  it  The  Gills  ?  " 

"  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  drawing  Walter  to  his  side,  and 
taking  his  arm  tenderly  through  his,  "  I  know.  I  know.  Of 
course  I  know  that  Wally  considers  me  more  than  himself 
always.  That's  in  my  mind.  When  I  say  he  is  glad  to  go, 
I  mean  I  hope  he  is.  Eh  ?  look  you,  Ned,  and  you  too, 
Wally,  my  dear,  this  is  new  and  unexpected  to  me  ;  and  I'm 
afraid  my  being  behind  the  time,  and  poor,  is  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  Is  it  really  good  fortune  for  him,  do  you  tell  me,  now  ? " 
said  the  old  man,  looking  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other. 
"  Really  and  truly  ?  Is  it  ?  I  can  reconcile  myself  to  almost 
any  thing  that  advances  Wally,  but  I  won't  have  Wally  put- 
ting himself  at  any  disadvantage  for  me,  or  keeping  any 
thing  from  me.  You,  Ned  Cuttle  !  "  said  the  old  man, 
fastening  on  the  captain,  to  the  manifest  confusion  of  that 
diplomatist  ;  "  are  you  dealing  plainly  by  your  old  friend  ? 
Speak  out,  Ned  (buttle.  Is  there  any  thing  behind  ?  Ought 
|.e  to  go  ?  How  do  )^ou  know  it  first,  a^d  why  ]*  " 


DOMBEV  AND   SON.  239 

As  it  was  a  contest  of  affection  and  self-denial,  Walter 
Struck  in  with  infinite  effect,  to  the  captain's  relief  ;  and 
between  them  they  tolerably  reconciled  old  Sol  Gills,  by 
continued  talking,  to  the  project  ;  or  rather  so  confused 
him,  that  nothing,  not  even  the  pain  of  separation,  was 
distinctly  clear  to  his  mind. 

He  had  not  much  time  to  balance  the  matter  ;  for  on  the 
verv  next  dav,  ^\  alter  received  from  Mr.  Carker,  the 
manager,  the  necessary  credentials  for  his  passage  and  oiltfit, 
together  with  the  information  that  the  Son  and  Heir  would 
sail  in  a  fortnight,  or  within  a  day  or  two  afterward  at  latest. 
In  the  hurry  of  preparation  :  which  Walter  purposely 
enhanced  as  much  as  possible  :  the  old  man  lost  what  little 
self-possession  he  ever  had  ;  and  so  the  time  of  departure 
drew  on  rapidly. 

The  captain,  who  did  not  fail  to  make  himself  acquainted 
with  all  that  passed,  through  inquiries  of  Walter  from  day  to 
day,  found  the  time  still  tending  on  toward  his  going  away, 
without  any  occasion  offering  itself,  or  seeming  likely  to  offer 
itself,  for  a  better  understanding  of  his  position.  It  was 
after  much  consideration  of  this  fact,  and  much  pondering 
over  such  an  unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances,  that 
a  bright  idea  occurred  to  the  captain.  Soppose  he  made 
a  call  on  Mr.  Carker,  and  tried  to  find  out  from  him  how 
the  land  really  lay  ! 

Captain  Cuttle  liked  this  idea  very  much.  It  came  upon 
him  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  as  he  was  smoking  an  early 
pipe  in  Brig  Place  after  breakfast  ;  and  it  was  worthy  of  the 
tobacco.  It  would  quiet  his  conscience,  which  was  an 
honest  one,  and  was  made  a  little  uneasy  by  what  Walter 
had  confided  to  him,  and  what  Sol  Gills  had  said  ;  and  it 
would  be  a  deep,  shrewd  act  of  friendship.  He  would  sound 
Mr.  Carker  carefully,  and  say  much  or  little,  just  as  he  read 
that  gentleman's  character,  and  discovered  that  they  got  on 
well  together  or  the  reverse. 

Accordingly,  without  the  fear  of  Walter  before  his  eyes 
(who  he  knew  was  at  home  packing),  Captain  Cuttle  again 
assumed  his  ankle-jacks  and  mourning  brooch,  and  issued 
forth  on  this  second  expedition.  He  purchased  no  propitia- 
tory nosegay  on  the  present  occasion,  as  he  was  going  to  a 
place  of  business  ;  but  he  put  a  small  sunflower  in  his 
button-hole  to  give  himself  an  agreeable  relish  of  the  coun- 
try ;  and    with   this,   and  the  knobby  stick,  and  the    glazed 


240  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

hat,  bore  down  upon  the  offices  of  Dombey  and 
Son. 

After  taking  a  glass  of  warm  rum-and-water  at  a  tavern 
close  by,  to  collect  his  thoughts,  the  captain  made  a  rush 
down  the  court,  lest  its  good  effects  should  evaporate,  and 
appeared  suddenly  to  Mr.   Perch. 

"  Matey,"  said  the  captain,  in  persuasive  accents.  "  One 
of  your   governors  is  named  Carker." 

Mr.  Perch  admitted  it  ;  but  gave  him  to  understand,  as 
in  official  duty  bound,  that  all  his  governors  were  engaged, 
and  never  expected  to  be  disengaged  any  more. 

"'  Look'ee  here,  mate,"  said  the  captain  in  his  ear  ;  "  my 
name's  Cap'en  Cuttle." 

The  captain  -would  have  hooked  Perch  gently  to  him, 
but  Mr.  Perch  eluded  the  attempt  ;  not  so  much  in  design, 
as  in  starting  at  the  sudden  thought  that  such  a  weapon 
unexpectedly  exhibited  to  Mrs.  Perch  might,  in  her  then 
condition,  be  destructive  to  that  lady's  hopes. 

"  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  just  report  Cap'en  Cuttle  here, 
when  you  get  a  chance,"  said  the  captain,  "  I'll 
wait." 

Saying  which,  the  captain  took  his  seat  on  Mr.  Perch's 
bracket,  and  drawing  out  his  handkerchief  from  the  crown 
of  the  glazed  hat,  which  he  jammed  between  his  knees  (with- 
out injury  to  its  shape,  for  nothing  human  could  bend  it), 
rubbed  his  head  well  all  over,  and  appeared  refreshed.  He 
subsequently  arranged  his  hair  with  his  hook,  and  sat  looking 
round  the  office,  contemplating  the  clerks  with  a  serene 
respect. 

The  captain's  equanimity  was  so  impenetrable,  and  he 
was  altogether  so  mysterious  a  being,  that  Perch  the  messen- 
ger was  daunted. 

"  What  name  was  it  you  said  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Perch,  bending 
down  over  him  as  he  sat  on  the  bracket. 

"  Cap'en,"  in  a  deep,  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  keeping  time  with  his  head. 

*'  Cuttle." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  the  same  tone,  for  he  caught  it, 
and  couldn't  help  it ;  the  captain,  in  his  diplomacy,  was  so 
impressive.  "  I'll  see  if  he's  disengaged  now.  I  don't  know. 
Perhaps  he  may  be  for  a  minute." 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,  I  won't  detain  him  longer  than  a  minute," 
said   the  captain,  nodding  with  all  the   weighty  importance, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  241 

that  he  felt  within  him.     Perch,  soon   returning,  said,  "  Will 
Captain  Cuttle  walk  this  way  ? " 

Mr.  Carker,  the  manager,  standing  on  the  hearthrug  before 
the  empty  fire-place,  which  was  ornamented  with  a  castellated 
sheet  of  brown  paper,  looked  at  the  captain  as  he  came  in, 
with  no  very  special  encouragement. 

"  Mr.  Carker  ?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle. 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,   showing  all  his  teeth. 

The  captain  liked  his  answering  with  a  smile  ;  it  looked 
pleasant.  "  You  see,"  began  the  captain,  rolling  his  eyes 
slowly  round  the  little  room,  and  taking  in  as  much  of  it  as 
his  shirt-collar  permitted  ;  "  I'm  a  sea-faring  man  myself, 
Mr.  Carker,  and  Wal'r,  as  is  on  your  books  here,  is  a'most  a 
son  of  mine." 

"  Walter  Gay  ?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  showing  all  his  teeth  agam. 

"  Wal'r  Gay  it  is,"  replied  the  captain  ;  ''  right  !  "  The 
captain's  manner  expressed  a  warm  approval  of  Mr.  Carker' s 
quickness  of  perception.  "I'm  a  intimate  friend  of  his  and 
his  uncle's.  Perhaps,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  may  have 
heard  your  head  governor  mention  my  name  ? — Captain 
Cuttle." 

"  No  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  still  wider  demonstration 

than  before. 

"  Well,"  resumed  the  captain,  "  I've  the  pleasure  of  his 
acquaintance.  I  waited  upon  him  down  on  the  Sussex  coast 
there,  with  my  young  friend  Wal'r,  when— in  short,  when 
there  was  a  little  accommodation  wanted."  The  captain 
nodded  his  head  in  a  manner  that  was  at  once  comfortable, 
easv,  and  expressive.     "  You  remember,  I  dare  say  ?  " 

''  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  had  the  honor  of  arrang- 
ing the  business." 

"  To  be  sure  !  "  returned  the  captain.  ''  Right  again  ! 
you  had.     Now  I've  took  the  liberty  of  coming  here—" 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  smiling. 

"  Thankee,"  returned  the  captain  availing  himself  of  the 
offer.  "  A  man  does  get  more  way  upon  himself,  perhaps, 
in  his  conversation,  when  he  sits  down.  Won't  you  take  a 
cheer  yourself  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  manager,  standing,  perhaps 
from  the  force  of  winter  habit,  with  his  back  against  the 
chimney-piece,  and  looking  down  upon  the  captain  with  an 
eye  in  every  tooth  and  gum.  "  You  have  taken  the  liberty, 
you  were  going  to  say — though  it's  none — " 


242  DOMBEY   AND    SOM. 

''Thankee  kindly,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain:  "of 
coming  here,  on  account  of  my  friend  Wal'r.  Sol  Gills,  his 
uncle,  is  a  man  of  science,  he  may  be  considered  a  clipper ; 
but  he  ain't  what  I  should  altogether  call  a  able  seaman — 
not  a  man  of  practice.  Wal'r  is  as  trim  a  lad  as  ever  stepped  ; 
but  he's  a  little  down  by  the  head  in  one  respect,  and  that  is 
modesty.  Now  what  I  should  wish  to  put  to  you,"  said  the 
captain,  lowering  his  voice,  and  speaking  in  a  kind  of  con- 
fidential growl,  "  in  a  friendly  way,  entirely  between  you  and 
me,  and  for  my  own  private  reckoning,  till  your  head 
governor  has  wore  round  a  bit,  and  I  can  come  alongside  of 
him,  in  this: — Is  every  thing  right  and  comfortable  here,  and 
is  Wal'r  out'ard  bound,  with  a  pretty  fair  wind  ? " 

"  What  do  you  think,  now.  Captain  Cuttle  ? "  returned 
Carker,  gathering  up  his  skirts,  and  settling  himself  in  his 
position.     "  You  are  a  practical  man  ;  what  do  you  think  ?  " 

The  acuteness  and  significance  of  the  captain's  eye  as  he 
cocked  it  in  reply,  no  words  short  of  those  unutterable 
Chinese  words  before  referred  to  could  describe, 

"  Come  !  "  said  the  captain,  unspeakably  encouraged, 
"  what  do  you  say  ?     Am  I  right  or  wrong  ? " 

So  much  had  the  captain  expressed  in  his  eye,  emboldened 
and  incited  by  Mr.  Carker's  smiling  urbanity,  that  he  felt 
himself  in  as  fair  a  condition  to  put  the  question  as  if  he  had 
expressed  his  sentiments  with  the  utmost  elaboration. 

"Right,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  1  have  no  doubt." 

"  Out'ard  bound,  with  fair  weather,  then,  I  say,"  cried 
Captain  Cuttle. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent. 

"  Wind  right  astarn,  and  plenty  of  it,"  pursued  the  cap- 
tain. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled  assent  again. 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  greatly  relieved  and 
pleased.  "  I  know'd  how  she  headed,  well  enough  ;  I  told 
Wal'r  so.     Thankee,  thankee." 

"Gay  has  brilliant  prospects,"  observed  Mr.  Carker, 
stretching  his  mouth  wider  yet:  "  all  the  world  before  him." 

"  All  the  world  and  his  wife  too,  as  the  saying  is,"  returned 
the  delighted  captain. 

At  the  world"  wife"  (which  he  had  uttered  without 
design),  the  captain  stopped,  cocked  his  eye  again,  and  put- 
ting the  glazed  hat  on  the  top  of  the  knobby  stick,  gave  it  a 
twirl,  and  looked  sideways  at  his  always  smiling  frtend. 


JJOM15EY    AND    SON.  243 

"  I'd  bet  a  gill  of  old  Jamaica,"  said  the  captain,^  eying  him 
attentively,  "  that  I  know  what  you're  smiling  at." 

Mr.  Carker  took  his  cue,  and  smiled  the  more. 

"  It  goes  no  further  ?  "  said  the  captain,  making  a  poke  at 
the  door  with  the  knobby  stick  to  assure  himself  that  it  was 
shut. 

"  Not  an  inch,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  You're  a-thinking  of  a  capital  F  perhaps  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain. 

Mr.  Carker  didn't  deny  it. 

*'  Any  thing  about  a  L."  said  the  captain,  "  or  a  O  ? " 

Mr.  Carker  still  smiled. 

"  Am  I  right  again  ?"  inquired  the  captain  in  a  whisper, 
with  the  scarlet  circle  on  his  forehead  swelling  in  his  trium- 
phant joy. 

Mr.  Carker,  in  reply,  still  smiHng,  and  now  nodding  assent, 
Captain  Cuttle  rose  and  squeezed  him  by  the  hand,  assur- 
ing him,  warmly,  that  they  were  on  the  same  tack,  and  that 
as^'for  him  (Cuttle)  he  had  laid  his  course  that  way  all  along. 

"  He  know'd  her  first,"  said  the  captain,  with  all  the 
secrecy  and  gravity  that  the  subject  demanded,  ''in  an 
uncommon  manner— jw^  remember  his  finding  her  in  the 
street  when  she  was  a'most  a  babby — he  has  liked  her  ever 
since,  and  she  him,  as  much  as  two  such  youngsters  can. 
We've  always  said,  Sol  Gills  and  me,  that  they  was  cut  out 
for  each  other." 

A  cat,  or  a  monkey,  or  a  hyena,  or  a  death's-head,  could 
not  have  shown  the  captain  more  teeth  at  one  time  than 
Mr.  Carker  showed  him  at  this  period  of  their  interview. 

"  There's  a  general    in-draught  that  way,"   observed    the 
happy  captain.     "  Wind  and  water  sets  in  that  direction,  you 
see.   '  Look  at  his  being  present  t'other  day  !  " 
*'  Most  favorable  to  his  hopes,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 
"  Look  at  his  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of  that  day  !  " 
pursued  the  captain.     "  Why  what  can  cut  him  adrift  now  ?  " 
"  Nothing,"  replied  Mr.  Carker. 

"You're  right  again,"  returned  the  captain,  giving  his 
hand  another  squeeze.  "  Nothing  it  is.  So  !  steady  ! 
There's  a  son  gone:  pretty  little  creetur.  Ain't  there  ?" 
"  Yes,  there's  a  son  gone,"  said  the  acquiescent  Carker. 
"  Pass  the  word,  and  there's  anpther  ready  for  you," 
quoth  the  captain.  "  Nevy  of  a  scientific  uncle  !  Nevy  of 
Sol  Gtlls  !     Wal'r  !     Wal'r,  as  is  already  in  your  business  ! 


244  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

And  " — said  the  captain,  rising  gradually  to  a  quotation  he 
was  preparing  for  a  final  burst — "  who  comes  from  Sol 
Gills's  daily,  to  your  business,  and  your  buzzums." 

The  captain's  complacency  as  he  gently  jogged  Mr.  Carker 
with  his  elbow,  on  concluding  each  of  the  foregoing  short 
sentences,  could  be  surpassed  by  nothing  but  the  exultation 
with  which  he  fell  back  and  eyed  him  when  he  had  finished 
this  brilliant  display  of  eloquence  and  sagacity  ;  his  great 
blue  waistcoat  heaving  with  the  throes  of  such  a  master-piece, 
and  his  nose  in  a  state  of  violent  inflammation  from  the  same 
cause. 

"Am  I  right?"  said  the  captain. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  bending  down  at  the 
knees,  for  a  moment,  in  an  odd  manner,  as  if  he  were  falling 
together  to  hug  the  whole  of  himself  at  once,  "  your  views 
in  reference  to  Walter  Gay  are  thoroughly  and  accurately 
right.  I  understand  that  we  speak  together  in  con- 
fidence." 

"  Honor  !  "  interposed  the  captain.     *'  Not  a  word." 

*'  To  him  or  any  one  ? "  pursued  the  manager. 

Captain  Cuttle  frowned  and  shook  his  head. 

"  But  merely  for  your  own  satisfaction  and  guidance — and 
guidance,  of  course,"  repeated  Mr.  Carker,  "  with  a  view  to 
your  future  proceedings." 

"  Thankee  kindly,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  captain,  listening 
with  great  attention. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying,  that's  the  fact.  You 
have  hit  the  probabilities  exactly." 

"  And  with  regard  to  your  head  governor,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  why  an  interview  had  better  come  about  nat'ral 
between  us.     There's  time  enough." 

Mr.  Carker,  with  his  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  repeated, 
"Time  enough."  Not  articulating  the  words,  but  bowing 
his  head  affably,  and  forming  them  with  his  tongue  and  lips. 

"  And  as  I  know — it's  what  I  always  said — that  Wal'r's  in 
a  way  to  make  his  fortune,"  said  the  captain. 

"  To  make  his  fortune,"  Mr.  Carker  repeated,  in  the  same 
dumb  manner. 

"  And  as  Wal'r's  going  on  this  little  voyage  is,  as  I  may 
say,  in  his  day's  work,  and  a  part  of  his  general  expectations 
here,"  said  the  captain. 

"Of  his  genera'  expectations  here,"  assented  Mr.  Carker, 
durably,  as  before. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  245 

"  Why,  so  long  as  I  know  that,"  pursued  the  captain, 
'*  there's  no  hurry,  and  my  mind's  at  ease." 

Mr.  Carker  still  blandly  assenting  in  the  same  voiceless 
manner.  Captain  Cuttle  was  strongly  confirmed  in  his  opinion 
that  he  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  men  he  had  ever  met, 
and  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  might  improve  himself  on  such  a 
model.  With  great  heartiness,  therefore,  the  captain  once 
again  extended  his  enormous  hand  (not  unlike  an  old  block 
in  color),  and  gave  him  a  grip  that  left  upon  his  smoother 
flesh  a  proof  impression  of  the  chinks  and  crevices  with 
which  the  captain's  palm  was  liberally  tattooed. 

"  Farewell !  "  said  the  captain.  ''  I  ain't  a  man  of  many 
words,  but  I  take  it  very  kind  of  you  to  be  so  friendly  and 
above-board.  You'll  excuse  me  if  I've  been  at  all  intruding^ 
will  you  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Not  at  all,"  returned  the  other. 

"  Thankee.  My  berth  ain't  very  roomy,"  said  the  captain, 
turning  back  again,  "but  it's  tolerably  snug  ;  and  if  you  was 
to  find  yourself  near  Brig  Place,  number  nine,  at  any  time 
— will  you  make  a  note  of  it  ? — and  would  come  up  stairs, 
without  minding  what  was  said  by  the  person  at  the  door,  I 
should  be  proud  to  see  you." 

With  that  hospitable  invitation,  the  captain  said  "  Good- 
day  !  "  and  walked  out  and  shut  the  door  ;  leaving  Mr.  Carker 
still  reclining  against  the  chimney-piece.  In  whose  sly  look 
and  watchful  manner  ;  in  whose  false  mouth,  stretched  but 
not  laughing  ;  in  whose  spotless  cravat  and  very  whiskers  ; 
even  in  whose  silent  passing  of  his  soft  hand  over  his  white 
linen  and  his  smooth  face  ;  there  was  something  desperately 
cat-like. 

The  unconscious  captain  walked  out  in  a  state  of  self-glor- 
ification that  imparted  quite  a  new  cut  to  the  broad  blue  suit. 
"  Stand  by,  Ned  !  "  said  the  captain  to  himself.  "  You've 
done  a  little  business  for  the  youngsters  to-day,  my  lad  I  " 

In  his  exultation,  and  in  his  familiarity,  present  and  pros- 
pective, with  the  house,  the  captain,  when  he  reached  the 
outer  office,  could  not  refrain  from  rallying  Mr.  Perch  a 
little,  and  asking  him  whether  he  thought  every  body  was 
still  engaged.  But  not  to  be  bitter  on  a  man  who  had  done 
his  duty,  the  captain  whispered  in  his  ear  that,  if  he  felt 
disposed  for  a  glass  of  rum-and-water,  and  would  follow,  he 
would  be  happy  to  bestow  the  same  upon  him. 

Before  leaving  the  premises,  the  captain,  somewhat  to   the 


246  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

astonishment  of  the  clerks,  looked  around  from  a  central 
point  of  view,  and  took  a  general  survey  of  the  office  as  part 
and  parcel  of  a  project  in  which  his  young  friend  was  nearly 
interested.  The  strong-room  excited  his  especial  admiration; 
but,  that  he  might  not  appear  too  particular,  he  limited  him- 
self to  an  approving  glance,  and,  with  a  graceful  recogni- 
tion of  the  clerks  as  a  body,  that  was  full  of  politeness  and 
patronage,  passed  out  into  the  court.  Being  promptly  joined 
by  Mr.  Perch,  he  conveyed  that  gentleman  to  the  tavern 
and  fulfilled  his  pledge — hastily,  for  Perch's  time  was 
precious. 

"  I'll  give  you  for  a  toast,"  said  the  captain,   "  Wal'r  !  " 

"  Who  ?  "  submitted  Mr.  Perch. 

"  Wal'r  I  "  repeated  the  captain,  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Mr.  Perch,  who  seemed  to  remember  having  heard  in 
infancy  that  there  was  once  a  poet  of  that  name,  made  no 
objection  ;  but  he  was  much  astonished  at  the  captain's 
coming  into  the  city  to  propose  a  poet  ;  indeed,  if  he  had 
proposed  to  put  a  poet's  statue  up — say  Shakespeare's,  for 
example — in  a  civic  thoroughfare,  he  could  hardly  have 
done  a  greater  outrage  to  Mr.  Perch's  experience.  On  the 
whole,  he  was  such  a  mysterious  and  incomprehensible  char- 
acter, that  Mr.  Perch  decided  not  to  mention  him  to  Mrs. 
Perch  at  all,  in  case  of  giving  rise  to  any  disagreeable  con- 
sequences. 

Mysterious  and  incomprehensible,  the  captain,  with  that 
lively  sense  upon  him  of  having  done  a  little  business  for 
the  youngsters,  remained  all  day,  even  to  his  most  intimate 
friends  ;  and  but  that  Walter  attributed  his  winks  and  grins, 
and  other  such  pantomimic  reliefs  of  himself,  to  his  satisfac- 
tion in  the  success  of  their  innocent  deception  upon  old  Sol 
Gills,  he  would  assuredly  have  betrayed  himself  before  night. 
As  it  was,  however,  he  kept  his  own  secret  ;  and  went  home 
late  from  the  instrument-maker's  house,  wearing  the  glazed 
hat  so  much  on  one  side,  and  carrying  such  a  beaming  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  (who  might  have 
been  brought  up  at  Doctor  Blimber's,"  she  was  such  a  Roman 
matron)  fortified  herself,  at  the  first  glimpse  of  him,  behind 
the  open  street  door,  and  refused  to  come  out  to  the  conteni- 
plation  of  her  blessed  infants  until  he  was  securely  lodged  in 
his  own  room. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  247 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

FATHER    AND    DAUGHTER. 

There  is  a  hush  through  Mr.  Dombey's  house.  Servants 
gliding  up  and  down  stairs  rustle,  but  make  no  sound  of 
footsteps.  They  talk  together  constantly,  and  sit  long  at 
meals,  making  much  of  their  meat  and  drink,  and  enjoying 
themselves  after  a  grim,  unhol}^  fashion.  Mrs.  Wickam, 
with  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  relates  melancholy  anec- 
dotes ;  and  tells  them  how  she  always  said  at  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
that  it  would  be  so,  and  takes  more  table-ale  than  usual,  and 
is  very  sorry  but  sociable.  Cook's  state  of  mind  is  similar. 
She  promises  a  little  fry  for  supper,  and  struggles  about 
equally  against  her  feelings  and  the  onions.  Towlinson 
begins  to  think  there's  a  fate  in  it,  and  wants  to  know  if  any 
body  can  tell  him  of  any  good  that  ever  came  of  living  in  a 
corner  house.  It  seems  to  all  of  them  as  having  happened 
a  long  time  ago  ;  though  yet  the  child  lies,  calm  and 
beautiful,  upon  his  little  bed. 

After  dark  there  come  some  visitors — noiseless  visitors, 
with  shoes  of  felt — who  have  been  there  before  ;  and  with 
them  comes  that  bed  of  rest  which  is  so  strange  an  one  for 
infant  sleepers.  All  this  time  the  bereaved  father  has  not 
been  seen  even  by  his  attendant  ;  for  he  sits  in  an  inner 
corner  of  his  own  dark  room  when  any  one  is  there,  and 
never  seems  to  move  at  other  times,  except  to  pace  it  to 
and  fro.  But  in  the  morning  it  is  whispered  among  the 
household  that  he  was  heard  to  go  up  stairs  in  the  dead 
night,  and  that  he  staid  there — in  the  room — until  the  sun 
was  shining. 

At  the  office  in  the  city,  the  ground-glass  windows  are 
made  more  dim  by  shutters  ;  and  while  the  lighted  lamps 
upon  the  desks  are  half  extinguished  by  the  day  that 
wanders  in,  the  day  is  half  extinguished  by  the  lamps,  and 
an  unusual  gloom  prevails.  There  is  not  much  business 
done.  The  clerks  are  indisposed  to  work  ;  and  they  make 
assignations  to  eat  chops  in  the  afternoon,  and  go  up  the 
river.  Perch,  the  messenger,  stays  long  upon  his  errands  ; 
and  finds  himself  in  bars  of  public-houses,  invited  thither 
by  friends,  and  holding  forth  on  the  uncertainty  of  human 
affairs.     He  goes  home  to  Ball's  Pond  earlier  in  the  evening 


245  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

than  usual,  and  treats  Mrs.  Perch  to  a  veal  cutlet  and 
Scotch  ale.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  treats  no  one,  neither  is 
he  treated  ;  but  alone  in  his  own  room  he  shows  his  teeth  all 
day  ;and  it  would  seem  that  there  is  something  gone  from  Mr. 
Carker' s  path — some  obstacle  removed — which  clears  his  way 
before  him. 

Now  the  rosy  children  living  opposite  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  peep  from  their  nursery  windows  down  into  the  street ; 
for  there  are  four  black  horses  at  his  door,  with  feathers  on 
their  heads  ;  and  feathers  tremble  on  the  carriage  that  they 
draw  ;  and  these,  and  an  array  of  men  with  scarfs  and 
staves,  attract  a  crowed.  The  juggler  who  was  going  to 
twirl  the  basin  puts  his  loose  coat  on  again  over  his  fine 
dress  ;  and  his  trudging  wife,  one-sided  with  her  heavy 
baby  in  her  arms,  loiters  to  see  the  company  come  out. 
But  closer  to  her  dingy  breast  she  presses  her  baby,  when 
the  burden  that  is  so  easily  carried  is  borne  forth  ;  and  the 
youngest  of  the  rosy  children  at  the  high  window  opposite 
needs  no  restraining  hand  to  check  her  in  her  glee,  when, 
pointing  with  her  dimpled  finger,  she  looks  into  her  nurse's 
face,  and  asks  ''  What's  that  !  " 

And  now,  among  the  knot  of  servants  dressed  in  mourn- 
ing, and  the  weeping  women,  Mr.  Dombey  passes  through 
the  hall  to  the  other  carriage  that  is  waiting  to  receive  him. 
He  is  not  ^'  brought  down,"  these  observers  think,  by 
sorrow  and  distress  of  mind.  His  walk  is  as  erect,  his  bear- 
ing is  as  stiff  as  ever  it  has  been.  He  hides  his  face  behind 
no  handkerchief,  and  looks  before  him.  But  that  his  face 
is  something  sunk,  and  rigid,  and  is  pale,  it  bears  the  same 
expression  as  of  old.  He  takes  his  place  within  the  carriage, 
and  three  other  gentlemen  follow.  Then  the  grand  funeral 
moves  slowly  down  the  street.  The  feathers  are  yet  nod- 
dmg  in  the  distance,  when  the  juggler  has  the  basin  spin- 
ning on  a  cane,  and  has  the  same  crowd  to  admire  it.  But 
the  juggler's  wife  is  less  alert  than  usual  with  the  money- 
box, for  a  child's  burial  has  set  her  thinking  that  perhaps 
the  baby  underneath  her  shabby  shawl  may  not  grow  up  to  be 
a  man,  and  wear  a  sky-blue  fillet  round,his  head,  and  salmon- 
colored  worsted  drawers,  and  tumble  in  the  mud. 

The  feathers  wind  their  gloomy  way  along  the  street, 
and  come  within  the  sound  of  a  church  bell.  In  this  same 
church  the  pretty  boy  received  all  that  will  soon  be  left  of 
him  on  earth — a,  name.     AU  of   him  that   is  dead  they  lay 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  249 

there,  near  the  perishable  substance  of  his  mother.  It  is 
well.  Their  ashes  lie  where  Florence  in  her  walks — oh 
lonely,  lonely  walks  ! — may  pass  them  any  day. 

The  service  over,  and  the  clergyman  withdrawn,  Mr. 
Dombey  looks  round,  demanding  in  a  low  toice  whether 
the  person  who  has  been  requested  to  attend  to  receive 
instructions  for  the  tablet  is  there  ? 

Some  one  comes  forward,  and  says  "  Yes." 
Mr.  Dombey  intimates  where  he  would  have  it  placed  ; 
and  shows  him,  with  his  hand  upon  the  wall,  the  shape  and 
size  ;  and  how  it  is  to  follow  the  memorial  to  the  mother. 
Then,  with  his  pencil,  he  writes  out  the  inscription  and 
gives  it  to  him  :  adding,  "  I  wish  to  have  it  done  at  once." 
"It  shall  be  done  immediately,  sir." 

"  There  is  really  nothing  to  inscribe  but  name  and  age, 
you  see." 

The  man  bows,  glancing  at  the  paper,  but  appears  to 
hesitate.  Mr.  Dombey  not  observing  his  hesitation,  turns 
away,  and  leads  toward  the  porch. 

"  I  beg    your  pardon,  sir  ;  "  a   touch  falls  gently  on   his 
mourning    cloak  ;  "  but  as  you  wish   it  done   immediately, 
and  it  may  be  put  in  hand  when  I  get  back — " 
''  Well  ?  " 

"  Will  you    be  so  good   as   read   it   over    again  ?  I  think 
there's  a  mistake." 
"  Where  ?  " 

The  statuary  gives  him   back   the  paper,  and  points  out, 
with  his  pocket-rule,  the  words,  "  beloved  and  only  child." 
"  It  should  be  '  son,'  I  think,  sir  ?  " 
"  You  are  right.     Of  course.     Make  the  correction." 
The   father,  with   a    hastier    step,  pursues  his  way  to  the 
coach.     When  the  other  three,  who  follow  closely,  take  their 
seats,   his  face  is   hidden   for  the  first  time — shaded  bv  his 
cloak.     Nor  do  they  see  it  any  more  that    day.     He  alights 
first,  and  passes  immediately  into  his  own  room.     The  other 
mourners  (who  are  only   Mr.   Chick  and  two  of  the  medical 
attendants)  proceed   up    stairs  to  the   drawing-room,  to  be 
received  by  Mrs.  Chick  and  Miss  Tox.     And  what  the  face 
is,    in    the    shut-up    chamber    underneath  :  or     what    the 
thoughts   are  :  what   the   heart   is,  what   the  contest  or  the 
suffering,  no  one  knows. 

The  chief  thing  that  they  know  below  stairs,  in  the  kitchen, 
is  that  "  it  seems  like  Sunday."     They  can  hardly  persuade 


250  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

themselves  but  that  there  is  something  unbecoming,  if  not 
wicked,  in  the  conduct  of  the  people  out-of-doors,  who 
pursue  their  ordinary  occupations,  and  wear  their  every-day 
attire.  It  is  miite  a  novelty  to  have  the  blinds  up  and  the 
shutters  open^  and  they  make  themselves  dismally  com- 
fortable over  bottles  of  wine,  which  are  freely  broached  as 
on  a  festival.  They  are  much  inclined  to  moralize.  Mr. 
Towlinson  proposes,  with  a  sigh,  ^'  Amendment  to  us  all  !  " 
for  which,  as  cook  says,  with  another  sigh,  "  There's  room 
enough,  God  knows."  In  the  evening,  Mrs.  Chick  and 
Miss  Tox  take  to  needle-work  again.  In  the  evening,  also, 
Mr.  Towlinson  goes  out  to  take  the  air,  accompanied  by  the 
house-maid,  who  has  not  yet  tried  her  mourning-bonnet. 
They  are  very  tender  to  each  other  at  dusky  street-corners, 
and  Towlinson  has  visions  of  leading  an  altered  and  blame- 
less existence  as  a  serious  green-grocer  in  Oxford 
Market. 

There  is  sounder  sleep  and  deeper  rest  in  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  to-night  than  there  has  been  for  many  nights.  The 
morning  sun  awakens  the  old  household,  settled  down  once 
more  in  their  old  ways.  The  rosy  children  opposite  run 
past  with  hoops.  There  is  a  splendid  wedding  in  the 
church.  The  juggler's  wife  is  active  with  the  money-box 
in  another  quarter  of  the  town.  The  mason  sings  and 
whistles  as  he  chips  out  P-a-u-l  in  the  marble  slab  before 
him. 

And  can  it  be  that  in  a  world  so  full  and  busy  the  loss 
of  one  weak  creature  makes  a  void  in  any  heart  so  wide  and 
deep  that  nothing  but  the  width  and  depth  of  vast  eternity 
can  fill  it  up  !  Florence,  in  her  innocent  affliction,  might  have 
answered,  ''  Oh  my  brother,  oh  my  dearly  loved  and  loving 
brother  !  Only  friend  and  companion  of  my  slighted  child- 
hood !  Could  any  less  idea  shed  the  light  already  dawning 
on  your  early  grave,  or  give  birth  to  the  softened  sorrow 
that  is  springing  into  life  beneath  this  rain  of  tears  !  " 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  who  held  it  as  a  duty 
incumbent  on  her  to  improve  the  occasion,  "  when  you  are 
as  old  as  I  am — " 

*'  Which  will  be  the  prime  of  life,"  observed  Miss  Tox. 

"  You  will  then,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  gently  squeezing 
Miss  Tox's  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  her  friendly  remark, 
"  you  will  then  know  that  all  grief  is  unavailing,  and  that  it 
i§  our  duty  to  submit," 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  251 

"  I  will  try,  dear  aunt.  I  do  try,"  answered  Florence, 
sobbing. 

''  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  because,  my 
love,  as  our  dear  Miss  Tox — of  whose  sound  sense  and 
excellent  judgment  there  can  not  possibly  be  two  opinions—" 

"  My  dear  Louisa,  I  shall  really  be  proud  soon,"  said  I^Iiss 

Tox. 

" — Will  tell  you,  and  confirm  by  her  experience,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  we  are  called  upon  on  all  occasions  to  make  an 
effort.  It  is  required  of  us.  If  any— my  dear,"  turning  to 
Miss  Tox,  "  I  want  a  word.   Mis — mis — " 

"  Demeanor  ?  "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  "  How  can  you  !  Good- 
ness me,  it's  on  the  end  of  my  tongue.     Mis — " 

"  Placed  affection?"  suggested  Miss  Tox,  timidly. 

"  Good  gracious,  Lucretia  !  "  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  ''  How 
very  monstrous  !  Misanthrope  is  the  word  I  want.  The 
idea !  Misplaced  affection  !  I  say,  if  any  misanthrope 
were  to  put  in  my  presence,  the  question,  '  Why  were  we 
born  ? '  I  should  reply,  '  To   make  an  effort.'  " 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox,  much  impressed  by 
the  originahty  of  the  sentiment.     "  Very  good." 

"  Unhappily,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chick,  *'  we  have  a  warning 
under  our  own  eyes.  We  have  but  too  much  reason  to  sup- 
pose, my  dear  child,  that  if  an  effort  had  been  made  in  tinie, 
in  this  family,  a  train  of  the  most  trying  and  distressing  cir- 
cumstances'might  have  been  avoided.  Nothing  shall  ever 
persuade  me,"  observed  the  good  matron,  with  a  resolute  air, 
''  but  that  if  that  effort  had  been  made  by  poor  dear  Fanny, 
the  poor  dear  darling  child  would  at  least  have  had  a 
stronger  constitution." 

Mrs.  Chick  abandoned  herself  to  her  feelings  for  half  a 
moment  ;  but,  as  a  practical  illustration  of  her  doctrine, 
brought  herself  up  short,  in  the  middle  of  a  sob,  and  went 
on  again. 

"  Therefore,  Florence,  pray  let  us  see  that  you  have  some 
strength  of  mind,  and  do  not  selhshly  aggravate  the  distress 
in  which  your  poor  papa  is  plunged." 

"Dear  aunt  I"  said  Florence,  kneeling  quickly  down 
before  her,  that  she  might  the  better  and  more  earnestly  look 
into  her  face.  "  Tell  me  more  about  papa.  Pray  tell  me 
about  him  !     Is  he  quite  heartbroken  ?  " 

Miss  Tox  was  of  a  tender  nature,  and  there  was  something 


252  •       DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

in  this  appeal  that  moved  her  very  much.  Whether  she  saw 
^n  it  a  succession,  on  the  part  of  the  neglected  child,  to  the 
affectionate  concern  so  often  expressed  by  her  dead  brother 
— or  a  love  that  sought  to  twine  itself  about  the  heart  that 
had  loved  him,  and  that  could  not  bear  to  be  shut  out  from 
sympathy  with  such  a  sorrow,  in  such  sad  community  of  love 
and  grief— or  whether  she  only  recognized  the  earnest  and 
devoted  spirit  which,  although  discarded  and  repulsed,  was 
wrung  with  tenderness  long  unreturned,  and  in  the  waste  and 
solitude  of  this  bereavement  cried  to  him  to  seek  a  comfort 
in  it,  and  to  give  some,  by  some  small  response — whatever 
may  have  been  her  understanding  of  it,  it  moved  Miss  Tox. 
For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  majesty  of  Mrs.  Chick, 
and  patting  Florence  hastily  on  the  cheek,  turned  aside  and 
suffered  the  tears  to  gush  from  her  eyes,  without  waiting  for 
a  lead  from  that  wise  matron. 

Mrs.  Chick  herself  lost,  for  a  moment,  the  presence  of 
mind  on  which  she  so  much  prided  herself:  and  remained 
mute,  looking  on  the  beautiful  young  face  that  had  so  long, 
so  steadily,  and  patiently  been  turned  toward  the  little  bed. 
But  recovering  her  voice — which  was  synonymous  with  her 
presence  of  mind,  indeed  they  were  one  and  the  same  thing 
— she  replied  with  dignity: 

"  Florence,  my  dear  child,  your  poor  papa  is  peculiar  at 
times  ;  and  to  question  me  about  him  is  to  question  me  upon 
a  subject  which  I  really  do  not  pretend  to  understand.  I 
believe  I  have  as  much  influence  with  your  papa  as  any  body 
has.  Still,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  has  said  very  little  to  me  ; 
and  that  I  have  only  seen  him  once  or  twice  for  a  minute  at 
a  time,  and  indeed  have  hardly  seen  him  then,  for  his  room 
has  been  dark.  I  have  said  to  your  papa,  '  Paul  !  '—that  is 
the  exact  expression  I  used — '  Paul  !  why  do  you  not  take 
something  stimulating  ? '  Your  papa's  reply  has  always 
been,  *  Louisa,  have  the  goodness  to  leave  me.  I  want 
nothing.  I  am  better  by  myself.'  If  I  was  to  be  put^  upon 
my  oath  to-morrow,  Ilucretia,  before  a  magistrate,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  have  no  doubt  I  could  venture  to  swear  to 
those  identical  words." 

Miss  Tox  expressed  her  admiration  by  saying,  "  My  Louisa 
is  ever  methodical  !  " 

"  In  short,  Florence,"  resumed  her  aunt,  ''  literally  nothing 
has  passed  between  your  poor  papa  and  myself,  until  tc  day  ; 
when  I  mentioned  to  your  papa  that  Sir  Barnet  and    ^ady 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  253 

Skettles  had  written  exceedingly  kind  notes — our  sweet  boy  ! 
Lady  Skettles  loved  him  like  a — where's  my  pocket  handker- 
chief ? '  " 

Miss  Tox  produced  one. 

"  Exceedingly  kind  notes,  proposing  that  you  should  visit 
them  for  change  of  scene.  Mentioning  to  your  papa  that  I 
thought  Miss  I'ox  and  myself  might  now  go  home  (in  which 
he  quite  agreed),  I  inquired  if  he  had  any  objection  to  your 
accepting  this  invitation.  He  said,  '  No,  Louisa,  not  the 
least  !  " 

Florence  raised  her  tearful  eyes. 

"  At  the  same  time,  if  you  would  prefer  staying  here,  Flor- 
ence, to  paying  this  visit  at  present,  or  to  going  home  with 
me—" 

*'  I  should  much  prefer  it,  aunt,"  was  the  faint  rejoinder. 

"Why  then,  child,"  said  Mrs.  Chick.  '' You  can.  It's  a 
strange  choice,  I  must  say.  But  you  always  were  strange. 
Any  body  else  at  your  time  of  life,  and  after  what  has  passed 
— my  dear  Miss  Tox,  I  have  lost  my  pocket  handkerchief 
again — would  be  glad  to  leave  here,  one  would  suppose." 

''  I  should  not  like  to  feel,"  said  Florence,  "  as  if  the  house 
was  avoided.  I  should  not  like  to  think  that  the — his — the 
rooms  up  stairs  were  quite  empty  and  dreary,  aunt.  I  would 
rather  stay  here,  for  the  present.  Oh  my  brother  !  oh  my 
brother  !  " 

It  was  a  natural  emotion,  not  to  be  suppressed  ;  and  it 
would  make  way  even  between  the  fingers  of  the  hands  with 
which  she  covered  up  her  face.  The  over-charged  and 
heavy-laden  breast  must  sometimes  have  that  vent,  or  the 
poor  wounded  solitary  heart  within  it  would  have  fluttered 
like  a  bird  with  broken  wings,  and  sunk  down  in  the  dust. 

''Well,  child!"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  after  a  pause.  "I 
wouldn't  on  any  account  say  any  thing  unkind  to  you,  and 
that  I'm  sure  you  know.  You  will  remain  here,  then,  and  do 
exactly  as  you  like.  No  one  will  interfere  with  you,  Florence, 
or  wish  to  interfere  with  you,  I'm  sure.  " 

Florence  shook  her  head  in  sad  assent. 

"  I  had  no  sooner  begun  to  advise  your  poor  papa  that  he 
really  ought  to  seek  some  distraction  and  restoration  in  a 
temporary  change,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  than  he  told  me  he 
had  already  formed  the  intention  of  going  into  the  country 
for  a  short  time.  I'm  sure  I  hope  he'll  go  very  soon.  He 
can't  go  too  soon.     But  I  suppose  there  are  some  arrange- 


254  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ments  connected  with  his  private  papers,  and  so  forth,  conse- 
quent on  the  affliction  that  has  tried  us  all  so  much — I  can't 
think  what's  become  of  mine:  Lucretia,  lend  me  yours,  my 
dear — that  may  occupy  him  for  one  or  two  evenings  in  his 
own  room.  Your  papa's  a  Dombey,  child,  if  ever  there  was 
one,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  drying  both  her  eyes  at  once  with  great 
care  on  opposite  corners  of  Miss  Tox's  handkerchief. 
"  He'll  make  an  effort.     There's  no  fear  of  him." 

"  Is  there  nothing,  aunt,"  asked  Florence,  trembling,  "  I 
might  do  to — " 

"  Lord,  my  dear  child,"  interposed  Mrs.  Chick,  hastily, 
"  what  are  you  talking  about  ?  If  your  papa  said  to  me — I 
have  given  you  his  exact  words,  *  Louisa,  I  want  nothing  ;  I 
am  better  by  myself  ' — what  do  you  think  he'd  say  to  you  ? 
You  mustn't  show  yourself  to  him,  child.  Don't  dream  of 
such  a  thing." 

"  Aunt,"  said  Florence,  "  I  will  go  and  lie  down  on  my 
bed." 

Mrs.  Chick  approved  of  this  resolution,  and  dismissed  her 
with  a  kiss.  But  Miss  Tox,  on  a  faint  pretense  of  looking 
for  the  mislaid  handkerchief,  went  up  stairs  after  her  ;  and 
tried  in  a  few  stolen  minutes  to  comfort  her,  in  spite  of  great 
discouragement  from  Susan  Nipper.  For  Miss  Nipper,  in 
her  burning  zeal,  disparaged  Miss  Tox  as  a  crocodile  ;  yet 
her  sympathy  seemed  genuine,  and  had  at  least  the  vantage- 
ground  of  disinterestedness— there  was  little  favor  to  be  won 
by  it. 

And  was  there  no  one  nearer  and  dearer  than  Susan  to 
upliold  the  striving  heart  in  its  anguish  ?  Was  there  no 
other  neck  to  clasp  ;  no  other  face  to  turn  to  ;  no  one  else  to 
say  a  soothing  word  to  such  deep  sorrow  ?  Was  Florence  so 
alone  in  the  bleak  world  that  nothing  else  remained  to  her  ? 
Nothing.  Stricken  motherless  and  brotherless  at  once — for 
in  the  loss  of  little  Paul,  that  first  and  greatest  loss  fell 
heavily  upon  her — this  was  the  only  help  she  had.  Oh,  who 
can  tell  how  much  she  needed  help  at  first ! 

At  first,  when  the  house  subsided  into  its  accustomed  course, 
and  they  had  all  gone  away,  except  the  servants,  and  her 
father  shut  up  in  his  own  rooms,  Florence  could  do  nothing 
but  weep,  and  wander  up  and  down,  and  sometimes,  in  a 
sudden  pang  of  desolate  remembrance,  fly  to  her  own  cham- 
ber, wring  her  hands,  lay  her  face  down  on  her  bed,  and 
know  no  consolation:  nothing  but  the  bitterness  and  cruelty 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  255 

of  grief.  This  commonly  ensued  upon  the  recognition  of 
some  spot  or  object  very  tenderly  associated  with  him  ;  and 
it  made  the  miserable  house,^t  first,  a  place  of  agony. 

But  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  pure  love  to  burn  so. fiercely 
and  unkindly  long.  The  flame  that  in  its  grosser  composi- 
tion has  the  taint  of  earth  may  prey  upon  the  breast  that 
gives  it  shelter  ;  but  the  sacred  fire  from  heaven  is  as  gentle 
in  the  heart  as  when  it  rested  on  the  heads  of  the  assembled 
twelve,  and  showed  each  man  his  brother,  brightened  and 
unhurt.  The  image  conjured  up,  there  soon  returned  the 
pi-acid  face,  the  softened  voice,  the  loving  looks,  the  quiet 
trustfulness  and  peace,  and  Florence,  though  she  wept,  still 
wept  more  tranquilly,  and  courted  the  remembrance. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  golden  water,  dancing  on 
the  wall,  in  the  old  place,  at  the  old  serene  time,  had  her 
calm  eye  fixed  upon  it  as  it  ebbed  away.  It  was  not  very 
long  before  that  room  again  knew  her,  often  ;  sitting  there 
alone,  as  patient  and  as  mild  as  when  she  had  watched  beside 
the  little  bed.  When  any  sharp  sense  of  its  being  empty 
smote  upon  her,  she  could  kneel  beside  it,  and  pray  God — 
it  was  the  pouring  out  of  her  full  heart — to  let  one  angel 
love  her  and  remember  her. 

It  was  not  very  long  before,  in  the  midst  of  the  dismal 
house  so  wide  and  dreary,  her  low  voice  in  the  twilight, 
slowly  and  stopping  sometimes,  touched  the  old  air  to  which 
he  had  so  often  listened,  with  his  drooping  head  upon  her 
arm.  And  after  that,  and  when  it  was  quite  dark,  a  little 
strain  of  music  trembled  in  the  room :  so  softly  played  and 
sung,  that  it  was  more  like  the  mournful  recollection  of  what 
she  had  done  at  his  request  on  that  last  night  than  the  reality 
repeated,  but  it  was  repeated  often — very  often,  in  the 
shadowy  solitude  ;  and  broken  murmurs  of  the  strain  still 
trembled  on  the  keys,  when  the  sweet  voice  was  hushed  in 
tears. 

Thus  she  gained  heart  to  look  upon  the  work  with  which 
her  fingers  had  been  busy  by  his  side  on  the  sea-shore  ;  and 
thus  it  was  not  very  long  before  she  took  to  it  again — with 
something  of  a  human  love  for  it,  as  if  it  had  been  sentient 
and  had  known  him  ;  and,  sitting  in  a  window,  near  her 
mother's  picture,  in  the  unused  room  so  long  deserted,  wore 
away  the  thoughtful  hours. 

AVhy  did  the  dark  eyes  turn  so  often  from  this  work  to 
where  the  rosy  children  lived  ?     They  were  not  immediately 


256  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

suggestive  of  her  loss  ;  for  they  were  all  girls  ;  four  little  sis 
ters.     But  they  were  motherless  like  her — and  had  a  father. 

It  was  easy  to  know  when  he  had  gone  out  and  was  expect- 
ed home,  for  the  elder  child  was  always  dressed  and  waiting 
for  him  at  the  drawing-room  window  or  in  the  balcony  ;  and 
when  he  appeared,  her  expectant  face  lighted  up  with  joy, 
while  the  others  at  the  high  window,  and  always  on  the 
watch  too,  clapped  their  hands,  and  drummed  them  on  the 
sill,  and  called  to  him.  The  elder  child  would  come  down 
to  the  hall,  and  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  lead  him  up  the 
stairs  ;  and  Florence  would  see  her  afterward  sitting  by  his 
side,  or  on  his  knee,  or  hanging  coaxingly  about  his  neck  and 
talking  to  him  ;  and  though  they  were  always  gay  together, 
he  would  often  watch  her  face  as  if  he  thought  her  Hke 
her  mother  that  was  dead.  Florence  would  sometimes  look 
no  more  at  this,  and  bursting  into  tears  would  hide  behind 
the  curtain  as  if  she  were  frightened,  or  would  hurry  from 
the  window.  Yet  she  could  not  help  returning  ;  and  her 
work  would  soon  fall  unheeded  from  her  hands  again. 

It  was  the  house  that  had  been  empty,  years  ago.  It  had 
remained  so  for  a  long  time.  At  last,  and  while  she  had 
been  away  from  home,  this  family  had  taken  it  ;  and  it  was 
repaired  and  newly  painted  ;  and  there  were  birds  and 
flowers  about  it  ;  and  it  looked  very  different  from  its  old 
self.  But  she  never  thought  of  the  house.  The  children 
and  their  father  were  all  in  all. 

When  he  had  dined,  she  could  see  them,  through  the  open 
windows,  go  down  with  their  governess  or  nurse,  and  cluster 
round  the  table  ;  and  in  the  still  summer  weather,  the  sound 
of  their  childish  voices  and  clear  laughter  would  come  ring- 
ing across  the  street  into  the  drooping  air  of  the  room  in 
which  she  sat.  Then  they  would  climb  and  clamber  up 
stairs  with  him,  and  romp  about  him  on  the  sofa,  or  group 
themselves  at  his  knee,  a  very  nosegay  of  little  faces,  while 
he  seemed  to  tell  them  some  story.  Or  they  would  come 
running  out  into  the  balcony  ;  and  then  Florence  would  hide 
herself  quickly,  lest  it  should  check  them,  in  their  joy,  to 
see  her   in  her  black  dress,  sitting  there  alone. 

The  elder  child  remained  with  her  father  when  the  rest 
had  gone  away,  and  made  his  tea  for  him — happy  little  house- 
keeper she  was  then  ! — and  sat  conversing  with  him,  some- 
times at  the  window,  sometimes  in  the  room,  until  the 
candles  came.     He    made  her  his  companion,   though  she 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  257 

was  some  years  younger  than  Florence  ;  and  she  could  be  as 
staid  and  pleasantly  demure  with  her  little  book  or  workbox 
as  a  woman.  When  they  had  candles,  Florence  from  her 
own  dark  room  was  not  afraid  to  look  again.  But  when  the 
time  came  for  the  child  to  say  "Good-night,  papa,"  and  go 
to  bed,  Florence  would  sob  and  tremble  as  she  raised  her 
face  to  him,  and  could  look  no  more. 

Though  still  she  would  turn,  again  and  again,  before  going 
to  bed  herself,  from  the  simple  air  that  had  lulled  him  to  rest 
so  often,  long  ago,  and  from  the  other  low,  soft,  broken  strain 
of  music,  back  to  that  house.  But  that  she  ever  thought  of 
it,  or  watched  it,  was  a  secret  which  she  kept  within  her  own 
young  breast. 

And  did  that  breast  of  Florence — Florence,  so  ingenuous 
and  true — so  worthy  of  the  love  that  he  had  borne  her,  and 
had  whispered  in  his  last  faint  words — whose  guileless  heart 
was  mirrored  in  the  beauty  of  her  face,  and  breathed  in  every 
accent  of  her  gentle  voice — did  that  young  breast  hold  any 
other  secret?     Yes.     One  more. 

When  no  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  and  the  lights 
were  all  extinguished,  she  would  softly  leave  her  own  room, 
and  with  noiseless  feet  descend  the  staircase,  and  approach 
her  father's  door.  Against  it,  scarcely  breathing,  she  would 
rest  her  face  and  head,  and  press  her  lips  in  the  yearning  of 
her  love.  She  crouched  upon  the  cold  stone  floor  outside  it, 
every  night,  to  listen  even  for  his  breath  ;  and  in  her  one 
absorbing  wish  to  be  allowed  to  show  him  some  affection,  to 
be  a  consolation  to  him,  to  win  him  over  to  the  endurance  of 
some  tenderness  from  her,  his  solitary  child,  she  would  have 
kneeled  down  at  his  feet,  if  she  had  dared,  in  humble  suppli- 
cation. 

No  one  knew  it.  No  one  thought  of  it.  The  door  was 
ever  closed,  and  he  shut  up  within.  He  went  out  once  or 
twice,  and  it  was  said  in  the  house  that  he  was  very  soon 
going  on  his  country  journey  ;  but  he  lived  in  those  rooms, 
and  lived  alone,  and  never  saw  her  or  inquired  for  her. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  even  know  that  she  was  in  the  house. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  the  funeral,  Florence  was  sit- 
ting at  her  work,  when  Susan  appeared,  with  a  face  half 
laughing  and  half  crying,  to  announce  a  visitor. 

"A  visitor  !  To  me,  Susan  !  "  said  Florence,  looking  up 
in  astonishment. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  wonder,  ain't  it  now,  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  ; 


258  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

''  but  I  wish  you  had  a-many  visitors,  I  do,  indeed,  for  you'd 
be  all  the  better  for  it,  and  it's  my  opinion  that  the  sooner 
you  and  me  goes  even  to  them  old  Skettleses,  miss,  the  better 
for  both  ;  I  may  not  wish  to  live  in  crowds,  Miss  Floy,  but 
still  I'm  not  a  oyster." 

To  do  Miss  Nipper  justice,  she  spoke  more  for  her  young 
mistress  than  herself  ;  and  her  face  showed  it. 

"  But  the  visitor,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

Susan,  with  an  hysterical  explosion  that  was  as  much  a 
laugh  as  a  sob,  and  as  much  a  sob  as  a  laugh,  answered, 

"  Mr.  Toots  !  " 

The  smile  that  appeared  on  Florence's  face  passed  from  it 
in  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  But  at  any  rate 
it  was  a  smile,  and  that  gave  great  satisfaction  to  Miss  Nipper. 

"  My  own  feelings  exactly.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan,  putting 
her  apron  to  her  eyes,  and  shaking  her  head.  "  Immediately 
I  see  that  Innocent  in  the  hall.  Miss  Floy,  I  burst  out  laugh- 
ing first,  and  then  I  choked." 

Susan  Nipper  involuntarily  proceeded  to  do  the  like  again 
on  the  spot.  In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  come  up 
stairs  after  her,  all  unconscious  of  the  effect  he  produced, 
announced  himself  with  his  knuckles  on  the  door,  and  walked 
in  very  briskly. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots — than  whom  there  were  few  better  fellows  in 
the  world,  though  there  may  have  been  one  or  two  brighter 
spirits — had  laboriously  invented  this  long  burst  of  discourse 
with  the  view  of  relieving  the  feelings  both  of  Florence  and 
himself.  But  finding  that  he  had  run  through  his  property, 
as  it  were,  in  an  injudicious  manner,  by  squandering  the 
whole  before  taking  a  chair,  or  before  Florence  had  uttered  a 
word,  or  before  he  had  well  got  in  at  the  door,  he  deemed  it 
advisable  to  begin  again. 

"  How  d'ye  do.  Miss  Dombey  ?"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I'm 
very  well,  I  thank  you  ;  how  are  you  ?  " 

Florence  gave  him  her  hand,  and  said  she  was  very  well. 

"  I'm  very  well  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  a  chair. 
"Very  well  indeed,  I  am.  I  don't  remember,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  after  reflecting  a  little,  ''  that  I  was  ever  better,  thank 
you." 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  come,"  said  Florence,  taking  up 
her  work.     "  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 


DOxMBEY  AND  SON.  259 

Mr.  Toots  responded  with  a  chuckle.  Thinking  that  might 
be  too  lively,  he  corrected  it  with  a  sigh.  Thinking  that 
might  be  too  melancholy,  he  corrected  it  with  a  chuckle.  Not 
throughly  pleasing  himself  with  either  mode  of  reply  he 
breathed  hard. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  my  dear  brother,"  said  Florence, 
obeying  her  own  natural  impulse  to  relieve  him  by  saying  so. 
"  He  often  talked  to  me  about  you." 

"Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  hastily. 
"Warm,  ain't  it?" 

"  It  is  beautiful  weather,"  replied  Florence. 

"It  agrees  with  me?''  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  don't  think  I 
ever  was  so  well  as  I  find  myself  at  present,  I'm  obliged  to 
you." 

After  stating  this  curious  and  unexpected  fact,  Mr.  Toots 
fell  into  a  deep  well  of  silence. 

"  You  have  left  Doctor  Blimber's,  I  think  ?  "  said  Florence, 
trying  to  help  him  out. 

'"  I  should  hope  so,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.     iVnd  tumbled 
in  again. 

He  remained  at  the  bottom,  apparently  drowned,  for  at 
least  ten  minutes.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period,  he  sud- 
denly floated,  and  said, 

"  Well !     Good-morning,  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Florence,  rising. 

"I  don't  know,  though.  No,  not  just  at  present,"  said 
Mr.  Toots,  sitting  down  again,  most  unexpectedly.  "  The 
fact  is — I  say.  Miss  Dombey  I  " 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Florence,  with  a 
quiet  smile,  "  I  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  talk  about 
my  brother." 

"  Would  you,  though,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots,  with  sympathy 
in  every  fiber  of  his  otherwise  expressionless  face.  "  Poor 
Dombey  !  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  that  Burgess  and  Co. — 
fashionable  tailors  (but  very  dear),  that  we  used  to  talk  about 
— would  make  this  suit  of  clothes  for  such  a  purpose."  Mr. 
Toots  was  dressed  in  mournmg.  "  Poor  Dombey  !  I  say  ! 
Miss  Dombey  I  "  blubbered  Toots. 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence. 

"  There's  a  friend  he  took  to  very  much  at  last.  I  thaught 
you'd  like  to  have  him,  perhaps,  as  a  sort  of  keepsake.  You 
remember  his  remembering  Diogenes  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes  !  oh  yes  I  "  cried  Florence. 


26o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Poor  Dombey  !     So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots,  seeing  Florence  in  tears,  had  great  difficulty  in 
getting  beyond  this  point,  and  had  nearly  tumbled  into  the 
well  again.     But  a  chuckle  saved  him  on  the  brink. 

"  I  say,"  he  proceeded,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  I  could  have  had 
him  stolen  for  ten  shillings,  if  they  hadn't  given  him  up:  and 
I  would:  but  they  were  glad  to  get  rid  of  him,  I  think.  If 
you'd  like  to  have  him,  he's  at  the  door.  I  brought  him  on 
purpose  for  you.  He  ain't  a  lady's  dog,  you  know,"  said 
Mr,  Toots  ;  "  but  you  won't  mind  that,  will  you  ?  " 

In  fact,  Diogenes  was  at  that  moment,  as  they  presently 
ascertained  from  looking  down  into  the  street,  staring  through 
the  window  of  a  hackney  cabriolet,  into  which,  for  convey- 
ance to  that  spot,  he  had  been  ensnared,  on  a  false  pretense 
of  rats  among  the  straw.  Sooth  to  say,  he  was  as  unlike  a 
lady's  dog  as  dog  might  be  ;  and  in  his  gruff  anxiety  to  get 
out,  presented  an  appearance  sufficiently  unpromising,  as  he 
gave  short  yelps  out  of  one  side  of  his  mouth,  and  over- 
balancing himself  by  the  intensity  of  every  one  of  those 
efforts,  tumbled  down  into  the  straw,  and  then  sprung  pant- 
ing up  again,  putting  out  his  tongue,  as  if  he  had  come 
express  to  a  dispensary  to  be  examined  for  his  health. 

But  though  Diogenes  was  as  ridiculous  a  dog  as  one  would 
meet  with  on  a  summer's  day  ;  a  blundering,  ill-favored, 
clumsy,  bullet-headed  dog,  continually  acting  on  a  wrong 
idea  that  there  was  an  enemy  in  the  neighborhood  whom  it 
was  meritorious  to  bark  at  ;  and  though  he  was  far  from 
good-tempered,  and  certainly  was  not  clever,  and  had  hair  all 
over  his  eyes,  and  a  comic  nose,  and  an  inconsistent  tail,  and 
a  gruff  voice  ;  he  was  dearer  to  Florence,  in  virtue  of  that 
parting  remembrance  of  him,  and  that  request  that  he  might 
be  taken  care  of,  than  the  most  valuable  and  beautiful  of  his 
kind.  So  dear,  indeed,  w^as  this  same  ugly  Diogenes,  and 
so  welcome  to  her,  that  she  took  the  jeweled  hand  of  Mr. 
Toots  and  kissed  it  in  her  gratitude.  And  when  Diogenes, 
released,  came  tearing  up  the  stairs  and  bouncing  into  the 
room  (such  a  business  as  there  was  first  to  get  him  out  of  the 
cabriolet  !),  dived  under  all  the  furniture,  and  wound  a  long 
iron  chain,  that  dangled  from  his  neck,  round  legs  of  chairs 
and  tables,  and  then  tugged  at  it  until  his  eyes  became 
unnaturally  visible,  in  consequence  of  their  nearly  starting 
out  of  his  head  ;  and  when  he  growled  at  Mr.  Toots,  who 
affected   familiarity  ;    and    went    pell-mell    at  Towlinson, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  261 

morally  convinced  that  he  was  the  enemy  whom  he  haa 
barked  at  round  the  corner  all  his  Ufe  and  had  never  seen 
yet ;  Florence  was  as  pleased  with  him  as  if  he  had  been  a 
miracle  of  discretion. 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his 
present,  and  was  so  delighted  to  see  Florence  bending  down 
over  Diogenes,  smoothing  his  coarse  back  with  her  little 
delicate  hand — Diogenes  graciously  allowing  it  from  the  first 
moment  of  their  acquaintance — that  he  felt  it  difficult  to 
take  leave,  and  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  a  much  longer 
time  in  making  up  his  mind  to  do  so,  if  he  had  not  been 
assisted  by  Diogenes  himself,  who  suddenly  took  it  into  his 
head  to  bay  Mr.  Toots,  and  to  make  short  runs  at  him 
with  his  mouth  open.  Not  exactly  seeing  his  way  to  the 
end  of  these  demonstrations,  and  sensible  that  they  placed 
the  pantaloons  constructed  by  the  art  of  Burgess  and  Co. 
in  jeopardy,  iSIr.  Toots,  with  chuckles,  lapsed  out  at  the 
door  :  by  which,  after  looking  in  again  two  or  three  tinies, 
without  any  object  at  all,  and  being  on  each  occasion 
greeted  with  a  fresh  run  from  Diogenes,  he  finally  took  him- 
self off  and  got  away. 

"  Come,  then,  Di  !  Dear  Di  !  Make  friends  with  your 
new  mistress.  Let  us  love  each  other,  Di  !  "  said  Florence, 
fondling  his  shaggy  head.  And  Di,  the  rough  and  gruff, 
as  if  his  hairy  hide  were  pervious  to  the  tear  that  dropped 
upon  it,  and  his  dog's  heart  melted  as  it  fell,  put  his  nose  up 
to  her  face,  and  swore  fidelity. 

Diogenes  the  man  did  not  speak  plainer  to  Alexander 
the  Great  than  Diogenes  the  dog  spoke  to  Florence.  He 
subscribed  to  the  offer  of  his  Httle  mistress  cheerfully,  and 
devoted  himself  to  her  service.  A  banquet  was  imme- 
diately provided  for  him  in  a  corner  ;  and  when  he  had 
eaten  and  drunk  his  fill,  he  went  to  the  window  where  Flor- 
ence was  sitting,  looking  on,  rose  up  on  his  hind  legs,  with 
his  awkward  fore  paws  on  her  shoulders,  licked  her  face  and 
hands,  nestled  his  great  head  against  her  heart,  and  wagged 
his  tail  till  he  was  tired.  Finally,  Diogenes  coiled  himself 
up  at  her  feet  and  went  to  sleep. 

Although  Miss  Nipper  was  nervous  in  regard  of  dogs 
and  felt  it  necessary  to  come  into  the  room  with  her  skirts 
carefully  collected  about  her,  as  if  she  were  crossing  a  brook 
on  stepping-stones  ;  also  to  utter  little  screams  and  stand 
up  on  chairs  when  Diogenes   stretched  himself  ;  she  was  in 


262  t)OMBEY   AND   SON. 

her  own  manner  affected  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Toots,  and 
could  not  see  Florence  so  alive  to  the  attachment  and 
society  of  this  rude  friend  of  little  Paul's  without  some 
mental  comments  thereupon  that  brought  the  water  to  her 
eyes.  Mr.  Dombey,  as  a  part  of  her  reflections,  may  have 
been,  in  the  association  of  ideas,  connected  with  the  dog  ; 
but,  at  any  rate,  after  observing  Diogenes  and  his 
mistress  all  the  evening,  and  after  exerting  herself  with 
much  good-will  to  provide  Diogenes  a  bed  in  an  antecham- 
ber outside  his  mistress's  door,  she  said  hurriedly  to  Flor- 
ence, before  leaving  her  for  the  night, 

"  Your  pa's  agoing  off,  Miss  Floy,  to-morrow  morning." 

''  To-morrow  morning,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Yes,  miss  ;  that's  the  orders.     Early." 

"  Do  you  know,"  asked  Florence,  without  looking  at  her, 
"where  papa  is  going,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,  miss.  He's  going  to  meet  that  precious 
major  first,  and  I  must  say  if  I  was  acquainted  with  any 
major  myself  (which  heaven  forbid),  it  shouldn't  be  a 
blue  one  ?  " 

"  Hush,  Susan  !  "  urged  Florence,  gently. 

"  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  Miss  Nipper,  who  was  full 
of  burning  indignation,  and  minded  her  stops  even  less 
than  usual.  "  I  can't  help  it,  blue  he  is,  and  while  I  was  a 
Christian,  although  humble,  I  would  have  natural-colored 
friends,  or  none." 

It  appeared  from  what  she  added  and  had  gleaned  down 
stairs,  that  Mrs.  Chick  had  proposed  the  major  for  Mr. 
Dombey' s  companion,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey,  after  some 
hesitation,  had  invited  him. 

''  Talk  of  him  being  a  change,  indeed  !  "  observed  Miss 
Nipper  to  herself  with  boundless  contempt.  "  If  he's  a 
change,  give  me  a  constancy." 

''  Good-night,  Susan,"  said  Florence. 

*'  Good-night,  my  darling,  dear  Miss  Floy." 

Her  tone  of  commiseration  smote  the  chord  so  often 
roughly  touched,  but  never  listened  to  while  she  or  any  one 
looked  on.  Florence,  left  alone,  laid  her  head  upon  her 
hand,  and  pressing  the  other  over  her  swelling  heart,  held 
free  communication  v.dth  her  sorrows. 

It  was  a  wet  night  ;  and  the  melancholy  rain  fell  patter- 
ing and  dropping  with  a  wearied  sound.  A  sluggish  wind 
was   blowing,    and   went   moaning  round  the  house   as  if  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  263 

were  in  pain  or  grief.  A  shrill  noise  quivered  through  the 
trees.  While  she  sat  weeping,  it  grew  late,  and  dreary 
midnight  tolled  out  from  the  steeples. 

Florence  was  little  more  than  a  child  in  years — not  yet 
fourteen — and  the  loneliness  and  gloom  of  such  an  hour  in 
the  great  house  where  death  had  lately  made  its  own 
tremendous  devastation,  might  have  set  an  older^  fancy 
brooding  on  vague  terrors.  But  her  innocent  imagination 
was  too  full  of  one  theme  to  admit  them.  Nothing  wandered 
in  her  thoughts  but  love — a  wandering  love,  indeed,  and 
cast  away — but  turning  always  to  her  father. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  dropping  of  the  rain,  the 
moaning  of  the  wind,  the  shuddering  of  the  trees,  the 
striking  of  the  solemn  clocks,  that  shook  this  one  thought, 
or  diminished  its  interest.  Her  recollections  of  the  dear 
dead  boy — and  they  were  never  absent — were  itself  ;  the 
same  thing.  And  oh,  to  be  shut  out  :  to  be  so  lost  :  never  to 
have  looked  into  her  father's  face  or  touched  him  since  that 
hour  ! 

She  could  not  go  to  bed,  poor  child,  and  never  had  gone 
yet,  since  then,  without  making  her  nightly  pilgrimage  to 
his  door.  It  would  have  been  a  strange,  sad  sight,  to  see 
her  now,  stealing  lightly  down  the  stairs  through  the  thick 
gloom,  and  stopping  at  it  with  her  beating  heart,  and 
blinded  eyes,  and  hair  that  fell  down  loosely  and  unthought 
of  ;  and  touching  it  outside  with  her  vs-et  cheek.  But  the 
night  covered  it,  and  no  one  knew. 

The  moment  that  she  touched  the  door  on  this  night, 
Florence  found  that  it  was  open.  For  the  first  time  it 
stood  open,  though  by  buta  hair's-breadth  ;  and  there  was  a 
light  within.  The  first  impulse  of  the  timid  child — and  she 
yielded  to  it — was  to  retire  swiftly.  Her  next,  to  go  back, 
and  to  enter  ;  and  this  second  impulse  held  her  in  irresolu- 
tion on  the  staircase. 

In  its  standing  open,  even  by  so  much  as  that  chink, 
there  seemed  to  be  hope.  There  was  encouragement  in 
seeing  a  ray  of  light  from  within,  stealing  through  the  dark 
stern  door'-wav,  and  falling  in  a  thread  upon  the  marble 
floor.  She  turned  back,  hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  but 
urged  on  by  the  love  within  her,  and  the  trial  they  had 
undergone  together,  but  not  shared  :  and  with  her  hands  a 
little  raised  and  trembling,  glided  in. 

Her  father  sat  ^t  his  old  table  in  the  middle  room.     He 


264  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

had  been  arranging  some  papers,  and  destroying  others,  and 
the  latter  lay  in  fragile  ruins  before  him.  The  rain  dripped 
heavily  upon  the  glass  panes  in  the  outer  room,  where  he  had 
so  often  watched  poor  Paul,  a  baby  ;  and  the  low  complain- 
ings of  the  wind  were  heard  without. 

But  not  by  him.  He  sat  with  his^yes  fixed  on  the  table, 
so  immersed  in  thought,  that  a  far  heavier  tread  than  the 
light  foot  of  his  child  could  make  might  have  failed  to 
rouse  him.  His  face  was  turned  toward  her.  By  the 
waning  lamp,  and  at  that  haggard  hour,  it  looked  worn  and 
dejected  ;  and  in  the  utter  loneliness  surrounding  him 
there  was  an  appeal  to  Florence  that  struck  home. 

"  Papa  !  papa  !  Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  !  " 

He  started  at  her  voice,  and  leaped  up  from  his  seat. 
She  was  close  before  him,  with  extended  arms,  but  he  fell 
back. 

"What  is  the  matter  !  "  he  said,  sternly.  "  Why  do  you 
come  here  ?  What  has  frightened  you  ? " 

If  any  thing  had  frightened  her,  it  was  the  face  he  turned 
upon  her.  The  glowing  love  within  the  breast  of  his  young 
daughter  froze  before  it,  and  she  stood  and  looked  at  him 
as  if  stricken  into  stone. 

There  was  not  one  touch  of  tenderness  or  pity  in  it. 
There  was  not  one  gleam  of  interest,  parental  recognition,  or 
relenting  in  it.  There  was  a  change  in  it,  but  not  of  that 
kind.  The  old  indifference  and  cold  constraint  had  given 
place  to  something  :  what,  she  never  thought  and  did  not 
dare  to  think,  and  yet  she  felt  it  in  its  force,  and  knew  it 
well  without  a  name  :  that,  as  it  looked  upon  her,  seemed 
to  cast  a  shadow  on  her  head. 

Did  he  see  before  him  the  successful  rival  of  his  son,  in 
health  and  life  ?  Did  he  look  upon  his  own  successful  rival 
in  that  son's  affection  ?  Did  a  mad  jealousy  and  withered 
pride  poison  sweet  remembrances  that  should  have  endeared 
and  made  her  precious  to  him  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that 
it  was  gall  to  him  to  look  upon  her  in  her  beauty  and  her 
promise  :  thinking  of  his  infant  boy  ! 

Florence  had  no  such  thoughts.  But  love  is  quick  to 
know  when  it  is  spurned  and  hopeless  ;  and  hope  died  out 
of  hers  as  she  stood  looking  in  her  father's  face. 

"  I  ask  you,  Florence,  are  you  frightened  ?  Is  there  any 
^kmg  the  matter,  that  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came,  papa — " 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  265 

"  Against  my  wishes.     Why  ?  " 

She  saw  he  knew  why  :  it  was  written  broadly  on  his 
face  :  and  dropped  her  head  upon  her  hands  with  one 
prolonged,  low  cry. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  It 
has  faded  from  the  air,  before  he  breaks  the  silence.  It 
may  pass  as  quickly  from  his  brain,  as  he  believes,  but  it  is 
there.     Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! 

He  took  her  by  the  arm.  His  hand  was  cold,  and  loose, 
and  scarcely  closed  upon  her. 

"  You  are  tired,  I  dare  say,"  he  said,  taking  up  the  light, 
and  leading  her  toward  the  door,  "  and  want  rest.  We  all 
want  rest.     Go,  Florence.     You  have  been  dreaming." 

The  dream  she  had  had  was  over  then,  God  help  her  ! 
and  she  felt  that  it  could  never  more  come  back. 

"  I  will  remain  here  to  light  you  up  the  stairs.  The 
whole  house  is  yours  above  there,"  said  her  father,  slowly. 
"  You  are  its  mistress  now.     Good-night  !  " 

Still  covering  her  face,  she  sobbed,  and  answered  "Good- 
night, dear  papa,"  and  silently  ascended.  Once  she  looked 
back  as  if  she  would  have  returned  to  him,  but  for  fear.  It 
was  a  momentary  thought,  too  hopeless  to  encourage  ;  and 
her  father  stood  there  with  the  light — hard,  unresponsive, 
motionless — until  the  fluttering  dress  of  his  fair  child  was 
in  the  darkness. 

Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  The 
rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof  :  the  wind  that  mourns  outside 
the  door  :  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy 
sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  ! 
The  last  time  he  had  watched  her,  from  the  same  place, 
winding  up  those  stairs,  she  had  had  her  brother  in  her 
arms.  It  did  not  move  his  heart  toward  her  now,  it  steeled 
it  ;  but  he  went  into  his  room,  and  locked  his  door,  and  sat 
down  in  his  chair  and  cried  for  his  lost  boy. 

Diogenes  was  broad  awake  upon  his  post,  and  waiting  for 
his  little  mistress. 

"  Oh  Di  !  Oh  dear  Di  !  Love  me  for  his  sake  !  '' 
Diogenes  already  loved  her  for  her  own,  and  didn't  care 
how  much  he  'showed  it.  So  he  made  himself  vastly 
ridiculous  by  performing  a  variety  of  uncouth  bounces  in 
the  antechamber,  and  concluded,  when  poor  Florence  was 
at  last  asleep,  and  dreaming  of  the  rosy  children  opposite, 
by  scratching  open  her  bed-room  door  :  rolling  up    his   bed 


266  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

into  a  pillow  :  lying  down  on  the  boards  at  the  full  length 
of  his  tether,  with  his  head  toward  her  :  and  looking  lazily 
at  her,  upside  down,  out  of  the  top  of  his  eyes,  until  from 
winking  and  winking  he  fell  asleep  himself,  and  dreamed, 
with  gruff  barks,  of  his  enemy. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

WALTER    GOES    AWAY. 

The  wooden  midshipman  at  the  instrument-maker's  door, 
like  the  hard-hearted  little  midshipman  he  was,  remained 
supremely  indifferent  to  Walter's  going  away,  even  when  the 
very  last  day  of  his  sojourn  in  the  back  parlor  was  on  the  de- 
cline. With  his  quadrant  at  his  round  black  knob  of  an  eye, 
and  his  figure  in  its  old  attitude  of  indomitable  alacrity,  the 
midshipman  displayed  his  elfin  small-clothes  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage, and,  absorbed  in  scientific  pursuits,  had  no  sym- 
pathy with  worldly  concerns.  He  was  so  far  the  creature  of 
circumstances,  that  a  dry  day  covered  him  with  dust,  and  a 
misty  day  peppered  him  with  little  bits  of  soot,  and  a  wet 
day  brightened  up  his  tarnished  uniform  for  the  moment, 
and  a  very  hot  day  blistered  him  ;  but  otherwise  he  was  a 
callous,  obdurate,  conceited  midshipman,  intent  on  his  own 
discoveries,  and  caring  as  little  for  what  went  on  about  him, 
terrestrially,  as  Archimedes  at  the  taking  of  Syracuse. 

Such  a  midshipman  he  seemed  to  be,  at  least,  in  the  then 
position  of  domestic  affairs.  Walter  eyed  him  kindly  many 
a  time  in  passing  in  and  out  ;  and  poor  old  Sol,  when  Wal- 
ter was  not  there,  would  come  and  lean  against  the  door- 
post, resting  his  weary  wig  as  near  the  shoe-buckles  of  the 
guardian  genius  of  his  trade  and  shop  as  he  could.  But  no 
fierce  idol  with  a  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  and  a  murderous 
^sage  made  of  parrot's  feathers,  was  ever  more  indifferent 
to  the  appeals  of  its  savage  votaries  than  was  the  midship- 
man to  these  marks  of  attachment. 

Walter's  heart  felt  heavy  as  he  looked  round  his  old  bed- 
room, up  among  the  parapets  and  chimneypots,  and  thought 
that  one  more  night  already  darkening  would  close  his  ac- 
quaintance with  it,  parhaps  forever.  Dismantled  of  his  lit- 
tle stock  of  books  and  pictures,  it  looked  coldly  and  re- 
proachfully on  him  for  his  desertion,  and  had  already  a  forC" 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  267 

shadowing  upon  it  of  its  coming  strangeness.  "  A  few  hours 
more,"  thought  Walter,  *'  and  no  dream  I  ever  had  here 
when  I  was  a  school-boy  will  be  so  little  mine  as  this  old 
room.  The  dream  may  come  back  in  my  sleep,  and  I  may 
return  waking  to  this  place,  it  may  be  ;  but  the  dream  at 
least  will  serve  no  other  master,  and  the  room  may  have  a 
score,  and  every  one  of  them  may  change,  neglect,  misuse  it." 

But  his  uncle  was  not  to  be  left  alone  in  the  little  back 
parlor,  where  he  was  then  sitting  by  himself  ;  for  Captain 
Cuttle,  considerate  in  his  roughness,  staid  away  against  his 
will,  purposely  that  they  should  have  some  talk  together  un- 
observed :  so  Walter,  newly  returned  home  from  his  last 
day's  bustle,  descended  briskly,  to  bear  him  company. 

*' Uncle,"  he  said  gayly,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  old 
man's  shoulder,  "  what  shall  I  send  you  home  from  Bar- 
bados ?  " 

"  Hope,  my  dear  Wally.  Hope  that  we  shall  meet  again 
on  this  side  of  the  grave.  Send  me  as  much  of  that  as  you 
can." 

"  So  I  will,  uncle  :  I  have  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I'll  not 
be  chary  of  it  !  And  as  to  lively  turtles,  and  limes  for  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's  punch,  and  preserves  for  you  on  Sundays,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing,  why  I'll  send  you  ship-loads,  uncle  : 
when  I'm  rich  enough." 

Old  Sol  wiped  his  spectacles,  and  faintly  smiled. 

"  That's  right,  uncle  !  "  cried  Walter,  merrily,  and  clapping 
him  half  a  dozen  times  more  upon  the  shoulder.  "  You 
cheer  up  me  !  I'll  cheer  up  you  !  We'll  be  as  gay  as  larks 
to-morrow  morning,  uncle,  and  we'll  fly  as  high  !  As  to  my 
anticipations,  they  are  singing  out  of  sight  now." 

''  Wally,  my  dear  boy,  "  returned  the  old  man,  *'  I'll  do 
my  best,  I'll  do  my  best." 

"And your  best,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  v\-ith  his  pleasant 
laugh,  "  is  the  best  best  that  I  know.  You'll  not  forget  what 
you're  to  send  w^,  uncle  ?  " 

"  No,  Wally,  no,"  replied  the  old  man  ;  "every  thing  I  hear 
about  Miss  Dombey,  now  that  she  is  left  alone,  poor  lamb, 
I'll  write.     I  fear  it  won't  be  much  though,  Wally." 

''  Why,  I'll  tell  you  what,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,''  I  have  just  been  up  there." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay?"  murmured  the  old  man,  raising  his  eye- 
brows, and  his  spectacles  with  them. 

"  Not  to  see  /ler,"  said   Walter,  "  though  I  could  have  seen 


268  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

her,  I  dare  say,  if  I  had  asked,  Mr.  Dombey  being  out  of 
town  :  but  to  say  a  parting  word  to  Susan.  I  thought  I 
might  venture  to  do  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstances, 
and  remembering  when  I  saw  Miss  Dombey  last." 

"  Ye5,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  rousing  himself 
from  a  temporary  abstraction. 

"  So  I  saw  her,"  pursued  Walter,  "  Susan,  I  mean  :  and  I 
told  her  I  was  off  and  away  to-morrow.  And  I  said,  uncle,  that 
you  had  always  had  an  interest  in  Miss  Dombey  since  that  night 
when  she  was  here,  and  always  wished  her  well  and  happy, 
and  always  would  be  proud  and  glad  to  serve  her  in  the  least : 
I  thought  I  might  say  that,  you  know,  under  the  circumstan- 
ces.    Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  boy,  yes,"  replied  his  uncle,  in  the  same  tone  as 
before. 

"And  I  added,"  pursued  Walter,  "that  if  she — Susan,  I 
mean — could  ever  let  you  know,  either  through  herself,  or 
Mrs.  Richards,  or  any  body  else  who  might  be  coming  this 
way,  that  Miss  Dombey  was  well  and  happy,  you  would  take 
it  very  kindly,  and  would  write  so  much  to  me,  and  I  should 
take  it  very  kindly  too.  There!  Upon  my  word,  uncle," 
said  Walter,  "  I  scarcely  slept  all  last  night  through  thinking 
of  doing  this  ;  and  could  not  make  up  my  mind,  when  I  was 
out,  whether  to  do  it  or  not  ;  and  yet  I  am  sure  it  is  the  true 
feeling  of  my  heart,  and  I  should  have  been  quite  miserable 
afterward  if  I  had  not  relieved  it." 

His  honest  voice  and  manner  corroborated  what  he  said, 
and  quite  established  its  ingenuousness. 

"  So,  if  you  ever  see  her,  uncle,"  said  Walter,  "  I  mean 
Miss  Dombey  now — and  perhaps  you  may,  who  knows  ! — tell 
her  how  much  I  felt  for  her  ;  how  much  I  used  to  think  of 
her  when  I  was  here  ;  how  I  spoke  of  her,  with  the  tears  in 
my  eyes,  uncle,  on  this  last  night  before  I  went  away.  Tell 
her  that  I  said  I  never,  could  forget  her  gentle  manner,  or  her 
beautiful  face,  or  her  sweet  kind  disposition  that  was  better 
than  all.  And  as  I  didn't  take  them  from  a  woman's  feet, 
or  a  young  lady's  :  only  a  little  innocent  child's,"  said  Wal- 
ter ":  "  tell  her,  if  you  don't  mind,  uncle,  that  I  kept  those 
shoes — she'll  remember  how  often  they  fell  off,  that  night — 
and  took  them  away  with  me  as  a  remembrance  !  " 

They  were  at  that  very  moment  going  out  at  the  door  in 
one  of  Walter's  trunks.  A  porter  carrying  off  his  baggage 
on  a  truck  for  shipment  at  the  docks  on  board  the   Son   ani. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  269 

Heir  had  got  possession  of  them,  and  wheeled  them  away 
under  the  very  eye  of  the  insensible  midshipman  before  their 
owner  had  well  finished  speaking. 

But  that  ancient  mariner  might  have  been  excused  his 
insensibility  to  the  treasure  as  it  rolled  away.  For,  under  his 
eye  at  the  same  moment,  accurately  within  his  range  of  ol)- 
servation,  coming  full  into  the  sphere  of  his  startled  and  in- 
tensely wide-awake  lookout,  were  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper, 
Florence  looking  up  into  his  face  half  timidly,  and  receiving 
the  whole  shock  of  his  wooden  ogling  ! 

More  than  this,  they  passed  into  the  shop,  and  passed  in 
at  the  parlor  door  before  they  were  observed  by  anybody  but 
the  midshipman.  And  Walter,  having  his  back  to  the  door, 
would  have  known  nothing  of  their  apparition  even  then,  but 
for  seeing  his  uncle  spring  out  of  his  own  chair,  and  nearly 
tumble  over  another. 

"  Why,  uncle  !  "  exclaimed  Walter.     "  What's  the  matter  ?*' 

Old  Solomon  replied,  "  Miss  Dombey  !  " 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  cried  Walter,  looking  around  and  start- 
ing up  in  his  turn.     "  Here  !  " 

Why  it  Avas  so  possible  and  so  actual,  that,  while  the  words 
were  on  his  lips,  Florence  hurried  past  him  ;  took  Uncle  Sol's 
^uff-colored  lappels,  one  in  each  hand  ;  kissed  him  on  the 
cheek  ;  and,  turning,  gave  her  hand  to  Walter  with  a  simple 
truth  and  earnestness  that  was  her  own,  and  no  one  else's  in 
the  world  ! 

"  Going  away,  Walter  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  replied,  but  not  so  hopefully  as 
Ke  endeavored  :  ''  I  have  a  voyage  before  me." 

"  And  your  uncle,"  said  Florence,  looking  back  at  Solo- 
mon. "  He  is  sorry  you  are  going,  I  am  sure.  Ah  !  I  see  he 
is  !     Dear  Walter,  I  am  very  sorry  too." 

''  Goodness  knows,"  exclaimed  Miss  Nipper,  ^'  there's 
a-many  we  could  spare  instead,  if  numbers  is  a  object  ;  j\lrs. 
Pipchin  as  a  overseer  would  come  cheap  at  her  weight  in 
gold,  and  if  a  knowledge  of  black  slavery  should  be  required, 
them  Blimbersis  the  very  people  for  the  sitiwation." 

With  that  Miss  Nipper  untied  her  bonnet-strings,  and  after 
looking  vacantly  for  some  moments  into  a  little  black  tea- 
pot that  was  set  forth,  with  the  usual  homely  service,  on  the 
table,  shook  her  head  and  a  tin  canister,  and  began,  unasked, 
to  make  the  tea. 

In  the  meantime  Florence  had  turned  again  to  the  instru- 


270  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

ment-maker,  who  was  as  full  of  admiration  as  surprise.  "  So 
grown  !  "  said  old  Sol.  "  So  improved  !  And  yet  not  al- 
tered !     Just  the  same  !  " 

"  Indeed  ! "  said  Florence. 

"  Ye— yes,  "  returned  old  Sol,  rubbing  his  hands  slowly, 
and  considering  the  matter  half  aloud,  as  something  pensive 
in  the  bright  eyes  looking  at  him  arrested  his  attention. 
"  Yes,  that  expression  was  in  the  younger  face,  too  !  " 

"  You  remember  me,"  said  Florence,  with  a  smile,  "  and 
what  a  little  creature  I  was  then  ?  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  "  returned  the  instrument-maker, 
"  how  could  I  forget  you,  often  as  I  have  thought  of  you  and 
heard  of  vou  since  !  At  the  very  moment,  indeed,  when  you 
came  in,'  Wally  was  talking  about  you  to  me,  and  leaving 
messages  for  you,  and — " 

"Was  he?"  said  Florence.  "Thank  you,  Walter!  Oh, 
thank  you,  Walter  !  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  going  away 
and  hardly  thinking  of  me  ;  "  and  again  she  gave  him  her  lit- 
tle hand  so  freely  and  so  faithfully  that  Walter  held  it  for 
some  moments  in  his  own,  and  could  not  bear  to  let  it  go. 

Yet  Walter  did  not  hold  it  as  he  might  have  held  it  once, 
nor  did  its  touch  awaken  those  old  day-dreams  of  his  boy- 
hood that  had  floated  past  him  sometimes  even  lately,  and 
confused  him  with  their  indistinct  and  broken  shapes.  The 
purity  and  innocence  of  her  endearing  manner,  and  its  per- 
fect trustfulness,  and  the  undisguised  regard  for  him  that 
lay  so  deeplv  seated  in  her  constant  eyes,  and  glowed  upon 
her  fair  face  through  the  smile  that  shaded — for  alas  !  it  was 
a  smile  too  sad  to  brighten — it,  were  not  of  their  romantic 
race.  They  brought  back  to  his  thoughts  the  early  death- 
bed he  had  seen  her  tending,  and  the  love  the  child  had  borne 
her  ;  and  on  the  wings  of  such  remembrances  she  seemed  to 
rise  up,  far  above  his  idle  fancies,  into  clearer  and  serener 
air. 

"  I— I  am  afraid  I  must  call  you  Walter's  uncle,  sir,"  said 
Florence  to  the  old  man,  "  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,"  cried  old  Sol.  "  Let  you  ! 
Good  gracious  !  " 

"  We  always  knew  you  by  that  name,  and  talked  of  you," 
said  Florence,  glancing  round,  and  sighing  gently.  "  The 
nice  old  parlor  !  Just  the  same  !  How  well  I  recollect 
it!" 

Old  Sol  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  nephew,   and    then 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  271 

rubbed  his  hands,  and  rubbed  his  spectacles,  and  said  below 

his  breath,  "  Ah  1  time,  time,  time  !  " 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  during  which  Susan  Nipper 
skillfully  impounded  two  extra  cups  and  saucers  from  the 
cupboard,  and  awaited  the  drawing  of  the  tea  with  a  thought- 
ful air. 

"  I  want  to  tell  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  laying  her 
hand  timidly  upon  the  old  man's  as  it  rested  on  the  table,  to 
bespeak  his  attention,  "  something  that  I  am  anxious  about. 
He  is  going  to  be  left  alone,  and  if  he  will  allow  me — not  to 
take  Walter's  place,  for  that  I  couldn't  do,  but  to  be  his  true 
friend  and  help  him  if  I  ever  can  while  Walter  is  away, 
I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  him  indeed.  Will  you  ?  May 
I,  Walter's  uncle  ?  " 

The  instrument-maker,  without  speaking,  put  her  hand  to 
his  lips,  and  Susan  Nipper,  leaning  back  with  her  arms 
crossed,  in  the  chair  of  presidency  into  which  she  had  voted 
herself,  bit  one  end  of  her  bonnet-strings,  and  heaved  a  gen- 
tle sigh  as  she  looked  up  at  the  sky-light. 

"  You  will  let  me  come  to  see  you,"  said  Florence,  "  when 
I  can  ;  and  you  will  tell  me  every  thing  about  yourself  and 
Walter  ;  and  you  will  have  no  secrets  from  Susan  when  she 
comes  and  I  do  not,  but  will  confide  in  us,  and  trust  us,  and 
rely  upon  us.  And  you'll  try  to  let  us  be  a  comfort  to  you  ? 
Will  you,  Walter's  uncle  ?  " 

The  sweet  face  looking  into  his,  the  gently  pleading  eyes, 
the  soft  voice,  and  the  light  touch  on  his  arm,^  made  the 
more  winning  by  a  child's  respect  and  honor  for  his  age,  that 
gave  to  all  an  air  of  graceful  doubt  and  modest  hesitation — 
these,  and  her  natural  earnestness,  so  overcame  the  poor 
old  instrument-maker,  that  he  only  answered  : 

"  Wallv  !  say  a  word  for  me,  mv  dear.  I'm  ver}'  grate- 
ful." 

"  No,   Walter,"   returned   Florence,   with  her  quiet  smile. 

"  Say  nothing  for  him,  if  you    please.     I   understand  him 

very'  well,  and  we  must  learn  to  talk  together  without  you, 

dear  Walter." 

"^     The    regretful   tone  in  which   she  said  these  latter  words 

*  touched  Walter  more  than  all  the  rest. 

"  Miss  Florence,"  he  replied,  with  an  effort  to  recover 
the  cheerful  manner  he  had  preserved  while  talking  with  his 
uncle,  "  T  know  no  more  than  my  uncle  what  to  say  in 
acknowledgment  of  such   kindness,  I  am     sure.     But   what 


272  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

jould   I   say,  after  all,  if  I  had  the  power  of  talking  for  an 
Aour,  except  that  it  is  like  you  ?  " 

Susan  Nipper  began  upon  a  new  part  of  her  bonnet-string, 
and  nodded  at  the  sky-light,  in  approval  of  the  sentiment 
expressed. 

"  Oh  !  but  Walter,"  said  Florence,  "  there  is  something 
that  I  wish  to  say  to  you  before  you  go  away,  and  you  must 
call  me  Florence,  if  you  please,  and  not  speak  like  a 
stranger." 

"  Like  a  stranger  ?  "  returned  Walter.  "  No.  I  couldn't 
speak  so.     I  am  sure,  at  least,  I  couldn't  feel  like  one." 

"  Ay,  but  that  is  not  enough,  and  is  not  what  I  mean. 
For,  Walter,"  added  Florence,  bursting  into  tears,  "  he 
liked  you  very  much,  and  said  before  he  died  that  he  was 
fond  of  you,  and  said,  '  Remember  Walter  !  '  and  if  you'll 
be  a  brother  to  me,  Walter,  now  that  he  is  gone  and  I  have 
none  on  earth,  I'll  be  your  sister  all  my  life,  and  think  of  you 
like  one,  wherever  we  may  be  !  This  is  what  I  wished  to  say, 
dear  Walter,  but  I  can  not  say  it  as  I  would,  because  my 
heart  is  full." 

And  in  its  fullness  and  its  sweet  simplicity,  she  held  out  both 
her  hands  to  him.  Walter  taking  them,  stopped  down  and 
touched  the  tearful  face  that  neither  shrunk  nor  turned  away 
nor  reddened  as  he  did  so,  but  looked  up  at  him  with  confi- 
dence and  truth.  In  that  one  moment  every  shadow  of  doubt 
or  agitation  passed  away  from  Walter's  soul.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  responded  to  her  innocent  appeal  beside  the 
dead  child's  bed  :  and,  in  the  solemn  presence  he  had  seen 
there,  pledged  himself  to  cherish  and  protect  her  very 
image,  in  his  banishment,  with  brotherly  regard  ;  to  garner 
up  her  simple  faith,  inviolate  ;  and  hold  himself  degraded 
if  he  breathed  upon  it  any  thought  that  was  not  in  her  own 
breast  when  she  gave  it  to  him. 

Susan  Nipper,  who  had  bitten  both  her  bonnet-strings  at 
once,  and  imparted  a  great  deal  of  private  emotion  to  the 
sky-light  during  this  transaction,  now  changed  the  subject 
by  inquiring  who  took  milk  and  who  took  sugar  ;  and  being 
enlightened  on  these  points,  poured  out  the  tea.  They  all' 
four  gathered  socially  about  the  little  table,  and  took  tea 
under  that  young  lady's  active  superintendence  ;  and  the 
presence  of  Florence  in  the  back  parlor  brightened  the 
Tartar  frigate  on  the  wall. 

Half    an   hour  ago  Walter,    for    his    life,   would    have 


DOM  BEY   AND   SON.  273 

hardly  called  her  by  her  name.  But  he  could  do  so  now 
when  she  entreated  him.  He  could  think  of  her  being  there, 
without  a  lurking  misgiving  that  it  would  have  been  better 
if  she  had  not  come.  He  could  calmly  think  how  beautiful 
she  was,  how  full  of  promise,  what  a  home  some  happy  man 
would  find  in  such  a  heart  one  day.  He  could  reflect  upon 
his  own  place  in  that  heart  with  pride  ;  and  with  a  brave 
determination,  if  not  to  deserve  it — he  still  thought  that 
far  above  him — never  to  deserve  it  less. 

Some  fairy  influence  must  surely  have  hovered  round  the 
hands  of  Susan  Nipper  when  sITe  made  the  tea,  engendering 
the  tranquil  air  that  reigned  in  the  back  parlor  during  its 
discussion.  Some  counter-influence  must  surely  have 
hovered  round  the  hands  of  Uncle  Sol's  chronometer,  and 
moved  them  faster  than  the  Tartar  frigate  ever  went  before 
the  wind.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  visitors  had  a  coach  in 
waiting  at  a  quiet  corner  not  far  off  ;  and  the  chronometer, 
on  bemg  incidentally  referred  to,  gave  such  a  positive 
opinion  that  it  had  been  waiting  a  long  time,  that  it  was 
impossible  to  doubt  the  fact,  especially  when  stated  on  such 
unimpeachable  authority.  If  Uncle  Sol  had  been  going  to 
be  hanged  by  his  own  time,  he  never  would  have  allowed 
that  the  chronometer  was  too  fast,  by  the  least  fraction 
of   a  second. 

Florence  at  parting  recapitulated  to  the  old  man  all  that 
she  had  said  before,  and  bound  him  to  their  compact. 
Uncle  Sol  attended  her  lovingly  to  the  legs  of  the  wooden 
midshipman,  and  there  resigned  her  to  Walter,  who  was 
ready  to  escort  her  and  Susan  Nipper  to  the  coach. 

"Walter,"  said  Florence,  by  the  way,  "I  have  been 
afraid  to  ask  before  your  uncle.  Do  you  think  you  will  be 
absent  very  long  ?  " 

"  Indeed,"  said  Walter,  "  I  don't  know,  I  fear  so.  Mr. 
Dombey  signified  as  much,  I  thought,  when  he  appointed 
me." 

"  Is  it  a  favor,  Walter  ? "  inquired  Florence,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and  looking  anxiously  in  his  face. 

''  The  appointment  ?  "  returned  Walter. 

*'Yes." 

Walter  would  have  given  anything  to  have  answered  in 
the  affirmative,  but  his  face  answered  before  his  lips  could, 
and  Florence  was  too  attentive  to  it  not  to  understand  its 
reply. 


274  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  scarcely  been  a  favorite  with  papa," 
she  said,  timidly. 

"  There  is  no  reason,"  replied  Walter,  smiling;  "  why  I 
should  be." 

"  No  reason,  Walter  !  " 

"  There  was  no  reason,"  said  Walter,  understanding  what 
she  meant.  "  There  are  many  people  employed  in  the 
house.  Between  Mr.  Dombey  and  a  young  man  like  me 
there's  a  wide  space  of  separation.  If  I  do  my  duty,  I  do 
what  I  ought,  and  do  no  more  than  all  the  rest." 

Had  Florence  any  misgiving  of  which  she  was  hardly 
conscious  :  any  misgiving  that  had  sprung  into  an  indistinct 
and  undefined  existence  since  that  recent  night  when  she 
had  gone  down  to  her  father's  room  :  that  Walter's  acci- 
dental interest  in  her,  and  early  knowledge  of  her,  might 
have  involved  him  in  that  powerful  displeasure  and  dislike  ? 
Had  Walter  any  such  idea,  or  any  sudden  thought  that  it 
was  in  her  mind  at  that  moment  ?  Neither  of  them  hinted  at 
it.  Neither  of  them  spoke  at  all,  for  some  short  time.  Sus^n. 
walking  on  the  other  side  of  Walter,  eyed  them  both  sharply  ; 
and  certainly  Miss  Nipper's  thoughts  traveled  in  that  direc- 
tion; and  very  confidently  too. 

^'  Vou  may  come  back  very  soon,"  said  Florence, 
*  perhaps,  Walter," 

"  1 7?iav  come  back,"  said  Walter,  "  an  old  man,  and  find 
you  an  old  lady.     But  I  hope  for  the  better  things." 

^' Papa,"  said  Florence,  after  a  moment,  "will — will 
recover  from  his  grief,  and — speak  more  freely  to  me  one 
day,  perhaps  ;  and  if  he  should,  I  will  tell  him  how  much  I 
wish  to  see  you  back  again,  and  ask  him  to  recall  you  for 
my  sake." 

There  was  a  touching  modulation  in  these  words  about  ner 
father  that  Walter  understood  too  well. 

The  coach  being  close  at  hand,  he  would  have  left  her 
without  speaking,  for  now  he  felt  what  parting  was  ;  but 
Florence  held  his  hand  when  she  was  seated,  and  then  he 
found  there  was  a  little  packet  in  her  own, 

"  Walter,"  she  said,  looking  full  upon  him  with  her 
affectionate  eyes,  "  like  you,  I  hope  for  better  things.  I  \/\\\ 
pray  for  them,  and  believe  that  they  will  arrive,  I  made 
this  little  gift  for  Paul,  Pray  take  it,  with  my  love,  and  do 
not  look  at  it  until  you  are  gone  away.  And  now,  Ciod  bless 
you,  Walter  !  never  forget  me.     You  are  my  brother,  dear." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  275 

He  was  glad  that  Susan  Nipper  came  between  them,  or 
he  might  have  left  her  with  a  sorrowful  remembrance  of 
him.  He  was  glad,  too,  that  she  did  not  look  out  of  the 
coach  again,  but  waved  the  little  hand  to  him  instead,  as 
long  as  he  could  see  it. 

In  spite  of  her  request,  he  could  not  help  opening  the 
packet  that  night  when  he  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  little 
purse  ;  and  there  was  money  in  it. 

Bright  rose  the  sun  next  morning,  from  his  absence  in 
strange  countries,  and  up  rose  Walter  with  it  to  receive  the 
captain,  who  was  already  at  the  door  :  having  turned  out 
earlier  than  was  necessary,  in  order  to  get  under  way  while 
Mrs.  MacStinger  was  yet  slumbering.  The  captain  pretend- 
ed to  be  in  tip-top  spirits,  and  brought  a  very  smoky  tongue 
in  one  of  the  pockets  of  the  broad  blue  coat  for  breakfast. 

"  And  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  when  they  took  their  seats 
at  table,  "  if  your  uncle's  the  man  I  think  him,  he'll  bring 
out  the  last  bottle  of  the  Madeira  on  the  present  occasion." 

''  No,  no,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man.  "  No  !  That 
shall  be  opened  when  Walter  comes  home  again." 

''  Well  said  !  "  cried  the  captain.     ''  Hear  him  !  " 
«      "  There  it  lies,"  said  Sol  Gills,   "  down  in  the  little^  cellar, 
covered  with  dirt  and   cobwebs.       There  may  be  dirt  and 
cobwebs  over  you  and  me  perhaps,  Ned,  before  it  sees  the 
light."  .      , 

"Hear  him!"  cried  the  captain.  "Good  morality! 
Wal'r,  my  lad.  Train  up  a  fig-tree  in  the  way  it  should  go, 
and  when  you  are  old  sit  under  the  shade  on  it.  Overhaul 
the —  Well,"  said  the  captain,  on  second  thoughts,  "  I  ain't 
quite  certain  where  that's  to  be  found,  but  when  found,  make 
a  note  of.     Sol  Gills,  heave  ahead  again  !  " 

''  But  there,  or  somewhere,  it  shall  lie,  Ned,  until  Wally 
comes  back  to  claim  it,"  said  the  old  man.  "  That's  all  I 
meant  to  say." 

''And  well  said  too,"  returned  the  captain  ;  '' and  if  we 
three  don't  crack  that  bottle  in  company,  I'll  give  you  two 
leave  to  drink  my  allowance  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  captain's  excessive  joviality,  he  made 
but  a  poor  hand  at  the  smoky  tongue,  though  he  tried  very 
hard,  when  any  body  looked  at  him,  to  appear  as  if  he  were 
eating  with  a  vast  appetite.  He  was  terribly  afraid,  likewise, 
of  being  left  alone  with  either  uncle  or  nephev/  ;  appearing 
to  consider  that  his  only  chance  of  safety  as  to   keeping  up 


276  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

appearances  was  in  there  being  always  three  together.  This 
terror  on  the  part  of  the  captain  reduced  him  to  such  ingen- 
ious evasions  as  running  to  the  door  when  Solomon  went  to 
put  his  coat  on,  under  pretense  of  having  seen  an  extraor- 
dinary hackney-coach  pass  :  and  darting  out  into  the  road 
when  Walter  went  up  stairs  to  take  leave  of  the  lodgers,  on 
a  feint  of  smelling  fire  in  a  neighboring  chimney.  These 
artifices  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  inscrutable  by  any  unin- 
spired observer. 

Walter  was  coming  down  from  his  parting  expedition  up 
stairs,  and  was  crossing  the  shop  to  go  back  to  the  little 
parlor,  when  he  saw  a  faded  face  he  knew,  looking  in  at  the 
door,  and  darted  toward  it. 

^'  Mr.  Carker  !  "  cried  Walter,  pressing  the  hand  of  John 
Carker  the  Junior.  *' Piay  come  in!  This  is  kind  of  you, 
to  be  here  so  early  to  say  good-by  to  me.  You  knew  how 
glad.it  would  make  me  to  shake  hands  with  you  once,  before 
going  away.  I  can  not  say  how  glad  I  am  to  have  this 
opportunity.     Pray  come  in." 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  we  may  ever  meet  again,  Walter," 
returned  the  other,  gently  resisting  his  invitation,  "  and  I 
am  glad  of  this  opportunity  too.  I  may  venture  to  speak  to 
you,  and  to  take  you  by  the  hand,  on  the  eve  of  separation. 
I  shall  not  have  to  resist  your  frank  approaches,  Walter, 
any  more." 

There  was  a  melancholy  in  his  smile  as  he  said  it,  that 
showed  he  had  found  some  company  and  friendship  for  his 
thoughts  even  in  that. 

"Ah  Mr.  Carker!"  returned  Walter.  "Why  did  you 
resist  them  ?  You  could  have  done  me  nothing  but  good,  I 
am  very  sure." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  If  there  were  any  good,"  he  said, 
"  I  could  do  on  this  earth,  I  would  do  it,  Walter,  for  you. 
The  sight  of  you  from  day  to  day  has  been  at  once  happiness 
and  remorse  to  me.  But  the  pleasure  has  outweighed  the 
pain.     I  know  that,  now,  by  knowing  what  I  lose." 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Carker,  and  make  acquaintance  with  my 
good  old  uncle,"  urged  W.ilter.  "  I  have  often  talked  to 
him  about  you,  and  he  will  be  glad  to  tell  you  all  he  hears 
from  me.  I  have  not,"  said  Walter,  noticing  his  hesitation, 
and  speaking  with  embarrassment  himself :  "  I  have  not 
told  him  any  thing  about  our  last  conversation,  Mr,  Carker  ; 
not  even  him,  believe  me." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  277 

The  gray  Junior    pressed  his  hand,  and   tears  rose  in  his 

eyes. 

"  If  I  ever  make  acquaintance  with  him,  Walter,"  he 
returned,  "  it  will  be  that  I  may  hear  tidings  of  you.  Rely 
on  my  not  wronging  vour  forbearance  and  consideration.  It 
would  be  to  wrong  it,  not  to  tell  him  all  the  truth,  before  I 
sought  a  word  of  confidence  from  him.  But  I  have  no  friend 
or  acquaintance  except  you  ;  and  even  for  your  sake,  am  lit- 
tle likely  to  make  any." 

"  I  wish,"  said  Walter,  "  you  had  suffered  me  to  be  your 
friend  indeed.  I  always  wished  it,  Mr.  Carker,  as  you  know  ; 
but  never  half  so  much  as  now,  when  we  are  going  to  part." 
"It  is  enough,"  replied  the  other,  "  that  you  have  been 
the  friend  of  my  own  breast,  and  that  when  I  have  avoided 
you  most,  my  heart  inclined  the  most  toward  you,  and  was 
fullest  of  you.     Walter,  good-by  !  " 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Carker.  Heaven  be  with  you,  sir  !  "  cried 
Walter,  with  emotion. 

''  If,"  said  the  other,  retaining  his  hand  while  he  spoke  ; 
"  if,  when  you  come  back,  you  miss  me  from  my  old  corner, 
and  should  hear  from  any  one  where  I  am  lying,  come  and 
look  upon  my  grave.  Think  that  I  might  have  been  as 
honest  and  as  happy  as  you  !  And  let  w^  think,  when  I  know 
my  time  is  coming  on,  that  some  one  like  my  former  self 
may  stand  there  for  a  moment,  and  remember  me  with  pity 
and  forgiveness  !     Walter,  good-by  !  " 

His  figure  crept  like  a  shadow  down  the  bright,  sun-lighted 
street,  so  cheerful  yet  so  solemn  in  the  early  summer  morn- 
ing ;  and  slowly  passed  away. 

The  relentless  chronometer  at  last  announced  that  Walter 
must  turn  his  back  upon  the  wooden  midshipman  :  and 
away  they  went,  himself,  his  uncle,  and  the  captain,  in  a 
hackney-coach  to  a  wharf,  where  they  were  to  take  steam- 
boat for  some  Reach  down  the  river,  the  name  of  which,  as 
the  captain  gave  it  out,  was  a  hopeless  mystery  to  the  ears 
of  landsmen.  Arrived  at  this  Reach  (whither  the  ship  had 
repaired  by  last  night's  tide),  they  were  boarded  by  various 
excited  watermen,  and  among  others  by  a  dirty  Cyclops  of  the 
captain's  acquaintance,  who,  with  his  one  eye,  had  made  the 
captain  out  some  mile  and  a  half  off,  and  had  been  exchang- 
ing unintelligible  roars  with  him  ever  since.  Becoming  the 
lawful  prize  of  this  personage,  who  was  frightfully  hoarse 
and  constitutionally  in  want  of  shaving,  they  were  all  three 


2  78  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

put  aboard  the  Son  and  Heir.  And  the  Son  and  Heir  was  in 
a  pretty  state  of  confusion,  with  sails  lying  all  bedraggled  on 
the  wet  decks,  loose  ropes  tripping  people  up,  men  in  red 
shirts  running  barefoot  to  and  fro,  casks  blockading  every 
foot  of  space,  and,  in  the  thickest  of  the  fray,  a  black  cook 
in  a  black  caboose  up  to  his  eyes  in  vegetables  and  blinded 
with  smoke. 

The  captain  immediately  drew  Walter  into  a  corner,  and 
with  a  great  effort,  that  made  his  face  very  red,  pulled  up  the 
silver  watch,  which  was  so  big,  and  so  tight  in  his  pocket, 
that  it  came  out  like  a  bung. 

"  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  handing  it  over,  and  shaking 
him  heartily  by  the  hand,  ''  a  parting  gift,  my  lad.  Put  it 
back  half  an  hour  every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter 
toward  the  afternoon,  and  it's  a  watch  that'll  do  you  credit." 

"  Captain  Cuttle  !  I  couldn't  think  of  it  !  "  cried  Walter, 
detaining  him,  for  he  was  running  away.  *'  Pray  take  it  back. 
I  have  one  already." 

"  Then,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  suddenly  diving  into 
one  of  his  pockets  and  bringing  up  the  two  teaspoons  and 
the  sugar-tongs,  with  which  he  had  armed  himself  to  meet 
such  an  objection,  ''  take  this  here  trifle  of  plate  instead." 

"  No,  no,  I  couldn't  indeed  !  "  cried  Walter  ;  ^'  a  thousand 
thanks  !  Don't  throw  them  away.  Captain  Ctttle  !  "  for  the 
captain  was  about  to  jerk  them  overboard.  *'  They'll  be  of 
much  more  use  to  you  than  me.  Give  me  your  stick.  I 
have  often  thought  that  I  should  like  to  have  it.  There  ! 
Good-bv,  Captain  Cuttle  !  Take  care  of  my  uncle  !  Uncle 
Sol,  God  bless  you  !  " 

They  were  over  the  side  in  the  confusion,  before  Walter 
caught  another  glimpse  of  either;  and  when  he  ran  up  to  the 
stern,  and  looked  after  them,  he  saw  his  uncle  hanging  down 
his  head  in  the  boat,  and  Captain  Cuttle  rapping  him  on  the 
back  with  the  great  silver  watch  (it  must  have  been  very  pain- 
ful), and  gesticulating  hopefully  with  the  tea-spoons  and 
sugar-tongs.  Catching  sight  of  Walter,  Captain  Cuttle  dropped 
the  property  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  with  perfect 
unconcern,  being  evidently  oblivious  of  its  existence,  and, 
pulling  off  the  glazed  hat,  hailed  him  lustily.  The  glazed  hat 
made  quite  a  show  in  the  sun  with  its  glistening,  and  the  cap- 
tain continued  to  wave  it  until  he  could  be  seen  no  longer. 
Then  the  confusion  on  board,  which  had  been  rapidly 
increasing,  reached  its  height  ;  two  or  three  other  boats  went 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  279 

away  with  a  cheer  ;  the  sails  shone  bright  and  full  above  as 
Walter  watched  them  spread  their  surface  to  the  favorable 
breeze  ;  the  water  flew  in  sparkles  from  the  prow  ;  and  off 
upon  her  voyage  went  the  Son  and  Heir,  as  hopefully  and 
trippingly  as  many  another  son  and  heir,  gone  down,  had 
started  on  his  way  before  her. 

Day  after  day,  Old  Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle  kept  her  reckon- 
ing in  the  little  back  parlor  and  worked  out  her  course,  with 
the  chart  spread  before  them  on  the  round  table.  At  night, 
when  Old  Sol  climbed  up  stairs,  so  lonely,  to  the  attic,  where 
it  sometimes  blew  great  guns,  he  looked  up  at  the  stars  and 
hstened  to  the  wind,  and  kept  a  longer  watch  than  would 
have  fallen  to  his  lot  on  board  the  ship.  The  last  bottle 
of  the  old  Madeira,  which  had  had  its  cruising  days,  and 
known  its  dangers  of  the  deep,  lay  silently  beneath  its  dust 
and  cobwebs,  in  the  meanwhile,  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MR.    DOMBEY    GOES   UPON    A    JOURNEY. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  sir,"  said  Major  Bagstock,  "  Joey  B.  is  not 
in  general  a  man  of  sentiment,  for  Joseph  is  tough.  But 
Joe  has  his  feelings,  sir,  and  when  they  are  awakened — 
damme,  Mr.  Dombey,"  cried  the  major,  with  sudden 
ferocity,  "  this  is  weakness,  and  I  won't   submit   to  it  !  " 

Major  Bagstock  delivered  himself  of  these  expressions  on 
receiving  IMr.  Dombey  as  his  guest  at  the  head  of  his  own 
staircase  in  Princess's  Place.  Mr.  Dombey  had  come  to 
breakfast  with  the  major,  previous  to  their  setting  forth  on 
their  trip  ;  and  the  ill-starred  native  had  already  undergone 
a  world  of  misery  arising  out  of  the  muffins,  while,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  general  question  of  boiled  eggs,  life  was  a 
burden  to  him. 

''It  is  not  for  an  old  soldier  of  the  Bagstock  breed," 
observed  the  major,  relapsing  into  a  mild  state,  "  to  deliver 
himself  up  a  prey  to  his  own  emotions  ;  but — damme,  sir," 
cried  the  major,  in  another  spasm  of  ferocity,  "  I  condole 
with  you  !  " 

The  major's  purple  visage  deepened  in  its  hue,  and  the 
major's  lobster  eyes  stood  out  in  bolder  relief  as  he  shook 
Mr.  Dombey  by  the  hand,  imparting  to  that  peaceful  action 


28o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

as  defiant  a  character  as  if  it  had  been  the  prelude  to  his 
immediately  boxing  Mr.  Dombey  for  a  thousand  pounds  a 
side  and  the  championship  of  England.  With  a  rotatory 
motion  of  his  head,  and  a  wheeze  very  like  the  cough  of  a 
horse,  the  major  then  conducted  his  visitor  to  the  sitting- 
room,  and  there  welcomed  him  (having  now  composed  his 
feelings)  with  the  freedom  and  frankness  of  a  traveling 
companion. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I'm 
proud  to  see  you.  There  are  not  many  men  in  Europe  to 
whom  J.  Bagstock  would  say  that — for  Josh  is  blunt,  sir  ; 
it's  his  nature — but  Joey  B.  is  proud   to   see  you,  Dombey." 

"  Major,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "you  are  very  obliging." 

"  No,  sir,"  said;the  major.  "  Devil  a  bit  !  That's  not  my 
character.  Iftliat  had  been  Joe's  character,  Joe  might  have 
been  by  this  time  Lieutenant-General  Sir  Joseph  Bagstock, 
K.  C.  B.,  and  might  have  received  you  in  very  different  quar- 
ters. You  don't  know  old  Joe  yet,  I  find.  But  this  occas- 
ion, being  special,  is  a  source  of  pride  to  me.  By  the  Lord, 
sir,"  said  the  major,  resolutely,  "  it's  an  honor  to  me  !  '' 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  estimation  of  himself  and  his  money, 
felt  that  this  was  very  true,  and  therefore  did  not  dispute  the 
point.  But  the  instinctive  recognition  of  such  a  truth  by  the 
major,  and  his  plain  avowal  of  it,  were  very  agreeable.  It 
was  a  confirmation  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  he  had  required  any, 
of  his  not  being  mistaken  in  the  major.  It  was  an  assurance 
to  him  that  his  power  extended  beyond  his  own  immediate 
sphere  ;  and  that  the  major,  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman, 
had  a  no  less  becoming  sense  of  it  than  the  beadle  of  the 
royal  exchange. 

And  if  it  were  ever  consolatory  to  know  this,  or  the  like 
of  this,  it  was  consolatory  then,  when  the  impotence  of  his 
will,  the  instability  of  his  hopes,  the  feebleness  of  wealth, 
had  been  so  direfully  impressed  upon  him.  What  could  it 
do,  his  boy  had  asked  him,  sometimes  thinking  of  the  baby 
question  he  could  hardly  forbear  inquiring,  himself,  what 
could iX.  do  indeed:  what  had  it  done  ? 

But  these  were  lonely  thoughts,  bred  late  at  night  in  the 
sullen  despondency  and  gloom  of  his  retirement,  and  pride 
easily  found  its  re-assurance  in  many  testimonies  to  the  truth, 
as  unimpeachable  and  precious  as  the  major's.  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, in  his  friendlessness,  inclined  to  the  major.  It  can  not 
be  said  that  he  warmed  toward  him,  but  he  thawed  a  little, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  281 

The  major  had  had  some  part — and  not  too  much — in  the 
days  by  the  sea-side.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
knew  some  great  people.  He  talked  much,  and  told  stories  ; 
and  Mr.  Dombey  was  disposed  to  regard  him  as  a  choice 
spirit  who  shone  in  society,  and  who  had  not  that  poisonous 
ingredient  of  poverty  with  which  choice  spirits  in  general  are 
too  much  adulterated.  His  station  was  undeniable.  Alto- 
gether the  major  was  a  creditable  companion,  well  accustomed 
to  a  life  of  leisure,  and  to  such  places  as  that  they  were 
about  to  visit,  and  having  an  air  of  gentlemanly  ease  about 
him  that  mixed  well  enough  with  his  own  City  character,  and 
did  not  compete  with  it  at  all.  If  Mr.  Dombey  had  any  linger- 
ing idea  that  the  major,  as  a  man  accustomed,  in  the  way  of 
his  calling,  to  make  light  of  the  ruthless  hand  that  had  lately 
crushed  his  hopes,  might  unconsciously  impart  some  useful 
philosophy  to  him,  and  scare  away  his  weak  regrets,  he  hid  it 
from  himself,  and  left  it  lying  at  the  bottom  of  his  pride, 
unexamined. 

"Where  is  my  scoundrel  ?  "  said  the  major,  looking  wrath- 
fully  round  the  room. 

The  native,  who  had  no  particular  name,  but  answered  to 
any  vituperative  epithet,  presented  himself  instantly  at  the 
door,  and  ventured  to  come  no  nearer. 

"You  villain!"  said  the  choleric  major,  "  where's  the 
breakfast  ?  " 

The  dark  servant  disappeared  in  search  of  it,  and  was 
quickly  heard  re-ascending  the  stairs  in  such  a  tremulous 
state,  that  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray  he  carried,  trem- 
bling sympathetically  as  he  came,  rattled  again,  all  the  way 
up. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  glancing  at  the  native  as  he 
arranged  the  table,  and  encouraging  him  with  an  awful  shake 
of  his  fist  when  he  upset  a  spoon,  "  here  is  a  deviled  grill,  a 
savory  pie,  a  dish  of  kidneys,  and  so  forth.  Pray  sit  down. 
Old  Joe  can  give  you  nothing  but  camp  fare,  you  see." 

"  Very  excellent  fare,  major,"  replied  his  guest  ;  and  not 
in  mere  politeness  either  ;  for  the  major  always  took  the  best 
possible  care  of  himself,  and  indeed  ate  rather  more  of  rich 
meats  than  was  good  for  him,  insomuch  that  his  imperial 
complexion  was  mainly  referred  by  the  faculty  to  that  cir- 
cumstance. 

"  You  have  been  looking  over  the  way,  sir,"  observed  the. 
major.     "  Have  you  seen  our  friend  ?  " 


282  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

"You  mean  Miss  Tox,"  retorted  Mr.  Dombey.     "  No." 

''Charming  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  a  fat  laugh 
rising  in  his  short  throat,  and  nearly  suffocating  him. 

"  Miss  Tox  is  a  very  good  sort  of  person,  I  believe,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Dombey. 

The  haughty  coldness  of  the  reply  seemed  to  afford  Major 
Bagstock  infinite  delight.  He  swelled  and  swelled,  exceed- 
ingly ;  and  even  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  for  a  moment, 
to  rub  his  hands. 

"  Old  Joe,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "was  a  bit  of  a  favorite  in 
that  quarter  once.  But  Joe  has  had  his  day.  J.  Bagstock  is 
extinguished — outrivaled — floored,  sir.  I  tell  you  what, 
Dombey."  The  major  paused  in  his  eating,  and  looked 
mysteriously  indignant.  "  That's  a  de-vilish  ambitious  wo- 
man, sir." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  "  Indeed  ?  "  with  frigid  indifference  : 
mingled  perhaps  with  some  contemptuous  incredulity  as  to 
Miss  Tox  having  the  presumption  to  harbor  such  a  superior 
quality. 

"  That  woman,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  is,  in  her  way,  a 
Lucifer.  Joey  B.  has  had  his  day,  sir,  but  he  keeps  his  eyes. 
He  sees,  does  Joe.  His  Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of 
York  observed  of  Joey,  at  a  levee,  that  he  saAv." 

The  major  accompanied  this  with  such  a  look,  and,  be- 
tween eating,  drinking,  hot  tea,  deviled  grill,  muffins,  and 
meaning,  was  altogether  so  swollen  and  inflamed  about  the 
head,  that  even  Mr.  Dombey  showed  some  anxiety  for  him. 

"  That  ridiculous  old  spectacle,  sir,"  pursued  the  major, 
"  aspires.  She  aspires  sky-high,  sir.  Matrimonially,  Dom- 
bey." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

*'  Don't  say  that,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  in  a  warn- 
ing voice. 

''Why  should  I  not,  major?"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  major  gave  no  answer  but  the  horse's  cough,  and  went 
on  eating  vigorously. 

"  She  has  taken  an  interest  in  your  household,"  said  the 
major,  stopping  short  again,  "and  has  been  a  frequent  visi- 
tor at  your  house  for  some  time  now." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey,  with  great  stateliness,  "  Miss 
Tox  was  originally  received  there,  at  the  time  of  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey's  death,  as  a  friend  of  my  sister's  ;  and  being  a  well- 
behaved  person,  and  showing  a  liking  for  the  poor  infant,  she 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  283 

was  permitted — I  may  say  encouraged — to  repeat  her  visits 
with  my  sister,  and  gradually  to  occupy  a  kind  of  footing  of 
familiarity  in  the  family.  I  have,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the 
tone  of  a  man  who  was  making  a  great  and  valuable  conces- 
sion," I  have  a  respect  for  Miss  Tox.  She  has  been  so  obliging 
as  to  render  many  little  services  in  my  house  :  trifling  and  in- 
significant services  perhaps,  major,  but  not  to  be  disparaged 
on  that  account  :  and  I  hope  I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
be  enabled  to  acknowledge  them  by  such  attention  and  no- 
tice as  it  has  been  in  my  power  to  bestow.  I  hold  myself  in- 
debted to  Miss  Tox,  major,"  added  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
slight  wave  of  his  hand,  ^'  for  the  pleasure  of  your  acquain- 
tance." 

'' Dombey,"  said  the  major,  warmly:  ''no!  No,  sir! 
Joseph  Bagstock  can  never  permit  that  assertion  to  pass  un- 
contradicted. Your  knowledge  of  old  Joe,  sir,  such  as  he  is, 
and  old  Joe's  knowledge  of  you,  sir,  had  its  origin  in  a  noble 
fellow,  sir — in  a  great  creature,  sir.  Dombey  !  "  said  the 
major,  with  a  struggle  which  it  was  not  very  difficult  to  par- 
ade, his  whole  life  being  a  struggle  against  all  kinds  of  apo- 
plectic symptoms,  "  we  knew  each  other  through  your 
boy." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed  touched,  as  it  is  not  improbable  the 
major  designed  he  should  be,  by  this  allusion.  He  looked 
down  and  sighed  ;  and  the  major,  rousing  himself  fiercely, 
again  said,  in  reference  to  the  state  of  mind  into  which  he 
felt  himself  in  danger  of  falling,  that  this  was  weakness,  and 
nothing  should  induce  him  to  submit  to  it. 

*'  Our  friend  had  a  remote  connection  with  that  event," 
said  the  major,  "  and  all  the  credit  that  belongs  to  her  J.  B. 
is  willing  to  give  her,  sir.  Notwithstanding  which,  ma'am," 
he  added,  raising  his  eyes  from  his  plate,  and  casting  them 
across  Princess's  Place,  to  where  Miss  Tox  was  at  that  mo- 
ment visible  at  her  window  watering  her  flowers,  "  you're  a 
scheming  jade,  ma'am,  and  your  am.bition  is  a  piece  of  mon- 
strous impudence.  If  it  only  made  yourself  ridiculous, 
ma'am,"  said  the  major,  rolling  his  head  at  the  unconscious 
Miss  Tox,  while  his  starting  eyes  appeared  to  make  a  leap 
toward  her,  "  you  might  do  that  to  your  heart's  content, 
ma'am,  without  any  objection,  I  assure  you,  on  the  part  of 
Bagstock."  Here  the  major  laughed  frightfully  up  in  the 
tips  of  his  ears  and  in  the  veins  of  his  head.  "  But  when, 
ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  you  compromise  other  people,  and 


254  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

generous,  unsuspicious  people  too,  as  a  repayment  for  their 
condescension,  you  stir  the  blood  of  old  Joe  in  his  body." 

"Major,"  said  Mr.  Dorabey,  reddening,  "I  hope  you  do 
not  hint  at  any  thing  so  absurd  on  the  part  of  Miss  Tox  as — " 

"  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  "I  hint  at  nothing.  But 
Joey  B.  has  lived  in  the  world,  sir  :  lived  in  the  world  with 
his  eyes  open,  sir,  and  his  ears  cocked  :  and  Joe  tells  you, 
Dombey,  that  there's  a  de-vilish  artful  and  ambitious  woman 
over  the  way." 

Mr.  Dombey  involuntarily  glanced  over  the  way  ;  and  an 
angry  glance  he  sent  in  that  direction,  too. 

"  That's  all  on  such  a  subject  that  shall  pass  the  lips  of 
Joseph  Bagstock,"  said  the  major,  firmly.  ''Joe  is  not  a 
tale-bearer,  but  there  are  times  when  he  must  speak,  when  he 
will  speak  ! — confound  your  arts,  ma'am,"  cried  the  major, 
again  apostrophizing  his  fair  neighbor  with  great  ire,  " — when 
the  provocation  is  too  strong  to  admit  of  his  remaining 
silent." 

The  emotion  of  this  outbreak  threw  the  major  into  a  par- 
oxysm of  horse's  coughs,  v/hich  held  him  for  a  long  time. 
On  recovering,  he  added  : 

''  And  now,  Dombey,  as  you  have  invited  Joe — old  Joe, 
who  has  no  other  merit,  sir,  but  that  he  is  tough  and  hearty — 
to  be  your  guest  and  guide  at  Leamington,  command  him  in 
any  way  you  please,  and  he  is  wholly  yours.  I  don't  know, 
sir,"  said  the  major,  wagging  his  double  chin  with  a  jocose 
air,  "what  it  is  you  people  see  in  Joe  to  make  you  hold  him  in 
such  great  request,  all  of  you;  but  this  I  know,  sir,  that  if  he 
wasn't  pretty  tough  and  obstinate  in  his  refusals,  you'd  kill 
him  among  you  with  your  invitations,  and  so  forth,  in 
double  quick  time." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  few  words,  expressed  his  sense  of  the  pref- 
erence he  received  over  those  others  distinguished  members 
of  society  who  were  clamoring  for  the  possession  of  Major 
Bagstock.  But  the  major  cut  him  short  by  giving  him  to  un- 
derstand that  he  followed  his  own  inclinations,  and  that  they 
had  risen  up  in  a  body  and  said  with  one  accord,  "  J.  B., 
Dombey  is  the  man  for  you  to  choose  as  a  friend." 

The  major  being  by  this  time  in  a  state  of  repletion,  with 
essence  of  savory  pie  oozing  out  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes, 
and  deviled  grill  and  kidneys  tightening  his  cravat  :  and  the 
time,  moreover,  approaching  for  the  departure  of  the  railway 
train  to  Birmingham,  by  which  they  were  to  leave  town  :  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  285 

native  got  him  into  his  great-coat  with  immense  difficulty, 
and  buttoned  him  up  until  his  face  looked  staring  and  gasp- 
ing, over  the  top  of  that  garment,  as  if  he  were  in  a  barrel. 
The  native  then  handed  him  separately,  and  with  a  decent 
interval  between  each  supply,  his  wash-leather  gloves,  his 
thick  stick,  and  his  hat  ;  which  latter  article  the  major  wore 
with  a  rakish  air  on  one  side  of  his  head,  by  way  of  toning 
down  his  remarkable  visage.  The  native  had  previously 
packed,  in  all  possible  and  impossible  parts  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
chariot,  which  was  in  waiting,  an  unusual  quantity  of  carpet- 
bags and  small  portmanteaus,  no  less  apoplectic  in  appear- 
ance than  the  major  himself  ;  and  having  filled  his  own 
pockets  with  Seltzer  water,  East  India  sherry,  sandwiches, 
shawls,  telescopes,  maps,  and  newspapers,  any  or  all  of  which 
light  baggage  the  major  might  require  at  any  instant  of  the 
journey,  he  announced  that  every  thing  was  ready.  To  com- 
plete the  equipment  of  this  unfortunate  foreigner  (  currently 
believed  to  be  a  prince  in  his  own  country),  when  he  took  his 
seat  in  the  rumble  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Towlinson,  a  pile  of 
the  major's  cloaks  and  great-coats  was  hurled  upon  him  by 
the  landlord,  who  aimed  at  him  from  the  pavement  with 
those  great  missiles  like  a  Titan,  and  so  covered  him  up,  that 
he  proceeded,  in  a  living  tomb,  to  the  railroad  station. 

But  before  the  carriage  moved  away,  and  while  the  native 
was  in  the  act  of  sepulture.  Miss  Tox,  appearing  at  her  win- 
dow, waved  a  Hly-white  handkerchief.  Mr.  Dombey  received 
this  parting  salutation  very  coldly — very  coldly  even  for 
him — and  honoring  her  with  the  slightest  possible  inclina- 
tion of  his  head,  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  with  a  very  dis- 
contented look.  His  marked  behavior  seemed  to  afford  the 
major  (who  was  all  politeness  in  his  recognition  of  Miss 
Tox)  unbounded  satisfaction  ;  and  he  sat  for  a  long  time  af- 
terward, leering,  and  choking,  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles. 

During  the  bustle  of  preparation  at  the  railway,  Mr.  Dom- 
bey and  the  major  walked  up  and  down  the  platform  side 
by  side  ;  the  former  taciturn  and  gloomy,  and  the  latter  en- 
tertaining him,  or  entertaining  himself,  with  a  variety  of 
anecdotes  and  reminiscences,  in  most  of  which  Joe  Bagstock 
was  the  principal  performer.  Neither  of  the  two  observed 
that  in  the  course  of  these  walks  they  attracted  the  attention 
of  a  working-man  who  v/as  standing  near  the  engine,  and  who 
touched  his  hat  every  time  they  passed  ;  for  Mr.  Dombey 
habitually  looked  over  the  vulgar  herd,  not  at  them  ;  and  the 


286  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

major  was  looking  at  the  time  into  the  core  of  one  of  his 
stories.  At  length,  however,  this  man  stepped  before  them 
as  they  turned  round,  and  pulling  his  hat  off,  and  keeping  it 
off,  ducked  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

^'  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "but  I  hope  you're 
a-doin'  pretty  well,  sir." 

He  was  dressed  in  a  canvas  suit  abundantly  besmeared 
with  coal-dust  and  oil,  and  had  cinders  in  his  whiskers,  and 
a  smell  of  half-slaked  ashes  all  over  him.  He  was  not  a 
bad-looking  fellow,  nor  even  what  could  be  fairly  called  a 
dirty-looking  fellow,  in  spite  of  this  ;  and,  in  short,  he  was 
Mr.  Toodle,  professionally  clothed. 

*'  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  stokin'  of  you  down,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Toodle.  "  Beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  hope  you  find 
yourself  a-coming  round  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  looked  at  him,  in  return  for  his  tone  of 
interest,  as  if  a  man  like  that  would  make  his  very  eyesight 
dirty. 

"' Scuse  the  liberty,  sir,"  said  Toodle,  seeing  he  was  not 
clearly  remembered,  "  but  my  wife  Polly,  as  was  called 
Richards  in  your  family — " 

A  change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face,  which  seemed  to  express 
recollection  of  him,  and  so  it  did,  but  it  expressed  in  a  much 
stronger  degree  an  an^ry  sense  of  humiliation,  stopped  Mr. 
Toodle  short. 

"  Your  wife  wants  money,  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  speaking  (but  that  he  always 
did)  haughtily. 

"  No,  thankee,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  "  I  can't  say  she 
does,     /don't." 

Mr.  Dombey  was  stopped  short  now  in  his  turn,  and 
awkwardly,  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 

"  No,  sir,"said  Toodle,  turning  his  oil-skin  cap  round  and 
round  ;  "  we're  a-doin'  pretty  well,  sir  ;  we  haven't  no 
cause  to  complain  in  the  worldly  way,  sir.  We've  had  four 
more  since  then,  sir,  but  we  rubs  on." 

Mr.  Dombey  would  have  rubbed  on  to  his  own  carriage, 
though  in  so  doing  he  had  rubbed  the  stoker  underneath  the 
wheels  ;  but  his  attention  was  arrested  by  something  in 
connection  with  the  cap  still  going  slowly  round  and  round 
in  the  man's  hand. 

''  We  lost  one  babby,"  observed  Toodle,  "  there's  no 
denyin'." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  287 

"  Lately,"  added  i\Ir.  Dombey,  looking  at  the  cap. 

"  No,  sir,  up'ard  of  three  years  ago,  but  all  the  rest  is 
hearty.  And  in  the  matter  o'  readin',  sir,"  said  Toodle, 
ducking  again,  as  if  to  remind  Mr.  Dombey  of  what  had 
passed  between  them  on  that  subject  long  ago,  "  them  boys 
o'  mine,  they  learned  me,  among  'em,  arter  all.  They've 
made  a  wery  tolerable  scholar  of  me,  sir,  them  boys." 

''Come,  major  !"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  resumed  Toodle,  taking  a  step 
before  them  and  deferentially  stopping  them  again,  still  cap 
in  hand  :  "  I  wouldn't  have  troubled  you  wiih  such  a  pint 
except  as  a  v/ay  of  get  in  the  name  of  my  son  Biler — chris- 
tened Robin — him  as  you  was  so  good  as  to  make  a  Charita- 
ble Grinder  on." 

"Well,  man,"  said  Mr.  Dombev,  in  his  severest  manner. 
"  What  about  him  ?  "  ' 

"  Why,  sir,"  returned  Toodle,  shaking  his  head  with  a 
face  of  great  anxiety  and  distress.  "  I'm  forced  to  say,  sir, 
that  he's  gone  wrong." 

"  He  has  gone  wrong,  has  he  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
hard  kind  of  satisfaction. 

"  He  has  fell  into  bad  company,  you  see,  gentlemen," 
pursued  the  father,  looking  wistfully  at  both,  and  evidently 
taking  the  major  into  the  conversation  with  the  hope  of 
having  his  sympathy.  "  He  has  got  into  bad  ways.  God 
send  he  may  come  to  again,  genelmen,  but  he's  on  the  wrong 
track  now  !  You  could  hardly  be  off  hearing  of  it  somehow, 
sir,"  said  Toodle,  again  addressing  Mr.  Dombey  individ- 
ually ;  "  and  it's  better  I  should  out  and  say  my  boy's  gone 
rather  wrong.  Polly's  dreadful  down  about  it,  genelmen," 
said  Toodle,  with  the  same  dejected  look,  and  another 
appeal  to  the  major. 

"  A  son  of  this  man's  whom  I  caused  to  be  educated, 
major,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  giving  him  his  arm.  "  The 
usual  return  !  " 

"  Take  advice  from  plain  old  Joe,  and  never  educate 
that  sort  of  people,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme,  sir, 
it  never  does  !  It  always  fails  !  " 

The  simple  father  was  beginning  to  submit  that  he  hoped 
his  son,  the  quondam  Grinder,  huffed  and  cuffed,  and 
flogged  and  badged,  and  taught,  as  parrots  are,  by  a  brute 
jobbed  into  his  place  of  school-master  with  as  much  fitness 
for  it  as  a  hound,   might  not  have    been  educated  on  quite 


288  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

a  right  plan  in  some  undiscovered  respects,  when  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  angrily  repeating  "  The  usual  return  !  "  led  the  major 
away.  And  the  major  being  heavy  to  hoist  into  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  carriage,  elevated  in  mid-air,  and  having  to  stop  and 
swear  that  he  would  flay  the  native  alive,  and  break  every 
bone  in  his  skin,  and  visit  other  physical  torments  upon 
him,  every  time  he  couldn't  get  his  foot  on  the  step,  and  fell 
back  on  that  dark  exile,  had  barely  time  before  they  started 
to  repeat  hoarsely  that  it  would  never  do  :  that  it  always 
failed  :  and  that  if  he  were  to  educate  ''his  own  vagabond," 
he  would  certainly  be  hanged. 

Mr.  Dombey  assented  bitterly  ;  but  there  was  something 
more  in  his  bitterness,  and  in  his  moody  way  of  falling  back 
in  the  carriage,  and  looking  with  knitted  brows  at  the 
changing  objects  without,  than  the  failure  of  that  noble  educa- 
tional system  administered  by  the  Grinders'  Company.  He 
had  seen  upon  the  man's  rough  cap  a  piece  of  new  crape, 
and  he  had  assured  himself,  from  his  manner  and  his  an- 
swers, that  he  wore  it  for  his  son. 

So  !  from  high  to  low,  at  home  or  abroad,  from  Florence 
in  his  great  house  to  the  coarse  churl  who  was  feeding  the 
fire  then  smoking  before  them,  every  one  set  up  some  claim 
or  other  to  a  share  in  his  dead  boy,  and  was  a  bidder  against 
him  !  Could  he  ever  forget  how  that  woman  had  wept  over 
his  pillow,  and  called  him  her  own  child  !  or  how  he,  v/aking 
from  his  sleep,  had  asked  for  her,  and  had  raised  himself  in 
his  bed  and  brightened  when  she  came  in  ! 

To  think  of  this  presumptuous  raker  among  coals  and 
ashes  going  on  before  there,  with  his  sign  of  mourning  ! 
To  think  that  he  dared  to  enter,  even  by  a  common  show 
like  that,  into  the  trial  and  disappointment  of  a  proud  gen- 
tleman's secret  heart  I  To  think  that  this  lost  child,  who  was 
to  have  divided  with  him  his  riches,  and  his  projects,  and 
his  power,  and  allied  with  whom  he  was  to  have  shut  out  all 
the  world  as  with  a  double  door  of  gold,  should  have  let  in 
such  a  herd  to  insult  him  with  their  knowledge  of  his 
defeated  hopes,  and  their  boasts  of  claiming  community  of 
feeling  with  himself,  so  far  removed  :  if  not  of  having  crept 
into  the  place  wherein  he  would  have  lorded  it,  alone  ! 

He  found  no  pleasure  or  relief  in  the  journey.  Tortured 
by  these  thoughts,  he  carried  monotony  with  him  through 
the  rushing  landscape,  and  hurried  headlong,  not  through  a 
rich  and  varied  country,  but  a  wilderness  of  blighted  plains 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  289 

and  gnawing  jealousies.  The  very  speed  at  which  the  train 
was  whirled  along  mocked  the  swift  course  of  the  young 
life  that  had  been  borne  away  so  steadily  and  so  inexorably 
to  its  foredoomed  end.  The  power  that  forced  itself  upon 
its  iron  way — its  own — defiant  of  all  paths  and  roads,  piercing 
through  the  heart  of  every  obstacle,  and  dragging  living 
creatures  of  all  classes,  ages  and  degrees  behind  it,  was  a 
type  of  the  triumphant  monster.  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a  rattle,  from  the 
town,  burrowing  among  the  dwellings  of  men  and  making 
the  streets  hum,  flashing  out  into  the  meadows  for  a  moment, 
mining  in  through  the  danip  earth,  booming  on  in  darkness 
and  heavy  air,  bursting  out  again  into  the  sunny  day  so 
bright  and  wide  ;  away,  Vvith  a  shriek,  and  a  roar,  and  a 
rattle,  through  the  fields,  through  the  woods,  through  the 
corn,  through  the  hay,  through  the  chalk,  through  the  mold, 
through  the  clay,  through  the  rock,  among  objects  close  at 
hand  and  almost  in  the  grasp,  ever  flying  from  the  traveler, 
and  a  der  fitful  distance  ever  moving  slowly  within  him  ; 
like  as  in  the  track  of  the  remorseless  monster,  Death  ! 

Through  the  hollow,  on  the  height,  by  the  heath,  by  the 
orchard,  by  the  park,  by  the  garden,  over  the  canal,  across 
the  river,  where  the  sheep  are  feeding,  where  the  mill  is 
going,  where  the  barge  is  floating,  where  the  dead  are  lying, 
where  the  factory  is  smoking,  where  the  stream  is  running, 
where  the  village  clusters,  where  the  great  cathedral  rises, 
where  the  bleak  moor  lies,  and  the  wild  breeze  smooths  or 
ruffles  it  at  its  inconstant  will  ;  away,  with  a  shriek,  and  a 
roar,  and  a  rattle,  and  no  trace  to  leave  behind  but  dust 
and  vapor  ;  like  as  in  the  track  of  the  remorseless  monster, 
Death  ! 

Breasting  the  wind  and  light,  the  shower  and  sunshine, 
away,  and  still  away,  it  rolls  and  roars  fierce  and  rapid, 
smooth  and  certain,  and  great  works  and  massive  bridges 
crossing  up  above,  fall  like  a  beam  of  shadow  an  inch  broad, 
upon  the  eye,  and  then  are  lost.  Away,  and  still  away, 
onward  and  onward  ever  :  glimpses  of  cottage-homes,  of 
houses,  mansions,  rich  estates,  of  husbandry  and  handicraft, 
of  people,  of  old  roads  and  paths  that  look  deserted,  small, 
and  insignificant  as  they  are  left  behind  :  and  so  they  do, 
and  what  else  is  there  but  such  glimpses,  in  the  track  of  the 
indomitable  monster.  Death  ! 

Away,  with  a   shriek,  and   a  roar,  and   a   rattle,  plunging 


290  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

do\rn  into  the  earth  again,  and  working  on  in  such  a  storm 
of  energy  and  perseverance,  that  amid  the  darkness  and 
whirlwind  the  motion  seems  reversed,  and  to  tend  furiously 
backward,  until  a  ray  of  light  upon  the  wet  wall  shows  its 
surface  flying  past  like  a  fierce  stream.  Away  once  more 
into  the  day,  and  through  the  day,  with  a  shrill  yell  of  exult- 
ation, roaring,  rattling,  tearing  on,  spurning  every  thing 
with  its  dark  breath,  sometimes  pausing  for  a  minute  where  a 
crowd  of  faces  are,  that  in  a  minute  more  are  not  :  some- 
times lapping  water  greedily,  and  before  the  spout  at  which 
it  drinks  has  ceased  to  drip  upon  the  ground,  shrieking, 
roaring,  rattling  through  the  purple  distance  ! 

Louder  and  louder  yet  it  shrieks  and  cries  as  it  comes 
tearing  on  resistless  to  the  goal  :  and  now  its  way,  still  like 
the  way  of  Death,  is  strewn  with  ashes  thickly.  Every 
thing  around  is  blackened.  There  are  dark  pools  of  water, 
muddy  lanes,  and  miserable  habitations  far  below.  There 
are  jagged  walls  and  falling  houses  close  at  hand,  and 
through  the  battered  roofs  and  broken  windows  wretched 
rooms  are  seen,  where  want  and  fever  hide  themselves  in 
many  wretched  shapes,  while  smoke  and  crowded  gables, 
and  distorted  chimneys,  and  deformity  of  brick  and  mortar 
penning  up  deformity  of  mind  and  body,  choke  the  murky 
distance.  As  Mr.  Dombey  looks  out  of  his  carriage 
window,  it  is  never  in  his  thoughts  that  the  monster  who  has 
brought  him  there  has  let  the  light  of  day  in  on  these  things 
— not  made  or  caused  them.  It  was  the  journey's  fitting 
end,  and  might  have  been  the  end  of  every  thing,  it  was  so 
ruinous  and  dreary. 

So,  pursuing  the  one  course  of  thought,  he  had  the  one 
relentless  monster  still  before  him.  All  things  looked  black, 
and  cold,  and  deadly  upon  him,  and  he  on  them.  He 
found  a  likeness  to  his  misfortune  everywhere.  There  was 
a  remorseless  triumph  going  on  about  him,  and  it  galled 
and  stung  him  in  his  pride  and  jealousy,  whatever  form  it 
took  ;  though  most  of  all  when  it  divided  with  him  the  love 
and  memory  of  his  lost  boy. 

There  was  a  face — he  had  looked  upon  it,  on  the  previous 
night,  and  it  on  him  with  eyes  that  rent  his  soul,  though 
they  were  dim  with  tears,  and  hidden  soon  behind  two 
quivering  hands — that  often  had  attended  him  in  fancy,  on 
this  ride.  He  had  seen  it,  with  the  expression  of  last  night, 
timidly  pleading  to  him.     It  was  not  reproachful  but  there 


DOMBE\    AND   SON.  291 

was  something  of  doubt,  almost  of  hopeful  incredulity  in  it, 
which,  as  he  once  more  saw  that  fade  away  into  a  desolate 
certainty  of  hisdislike,  was  like  reproach.  It  was  a  trouble 
to  him  to  think  of  this  face  of  Florence. 

Because  he  felt  any  new  compunction  toward  it?  No. 
Because  the  feeling  it  awakened  in  him — of  which  he  had 
had  some  old  foreshadowing  in  older  times — was  full-formed 
now,  spoke  out  plainly,  moving  him  too  much,  and 
threatening  to  grow  too  strong  for  his  composure.  Because 
the  face  was  abroad,  in  the  expression  of  defeat  and 
persecution  that  seemed  to  encircle  him  like  the  air. 
Because  it  barbed  the  arrow  of  that  cruel  and  remorseless 
enemy  on  which  his  thoughts  so  ran,  and  put  into  its  grasp 
a  double-handed  sword.  Because  he  knew  full  well,  in  his 
own  breast,  as  he  stood  there,  tinging  the  scene  of  transi- 
tion before  him  with  the  morbid  colors  of  his  own  mind, 
and  making  it  a  ruin  and  a  picture  of  decay,  instead  of 
hopeful  change,  and  promise  of  better  things,  that  life  had 
quite  as  much  to  do  with  his  complainings  as  death.  One 
child  was  gone,  and  one  child  left.  Why  was  the  object  of 
his  hope  removed  instead  of  her  ? 

The  sweet,  calm,  gentle  presence  in  his  fancy  moved 
him  to  no  reflection  but  that.  She  had  been  unwelcome 
to  him  from  the  first  :  she  was  an  aggravation  of  his  bitter- 
ness now.  If  his  son  had  been  his  only  child,  and  the  same 
blow  had  fallen  on  him,  it  would  have  been  heavy  to  bear  ; 
but  infinitelv  lighter  than  now,  when  it  might  have  fallen 
on  her  (whom  he  could  have  lost,  or  he  believed  it,  without 
a  pang)  and  had  not.  Her  loving  and  innocent  face  rising 
before  him  had  no  softening  or  winning  influence.  He 
rejected  the  angel,  and  took  up  with  the  tormenting  spirit 
crouching  in  his  bosom.  Her  patience,  goodness,  youth, 
devotion,  love,  were  as  so  many  atoms  in  the  ashes  upon 
which  he  set  his  heel  He  saw  her  image  in  the  blight  and 
blackness  all  around  him,  not  irradiating  but  deepening  the 
gloom.  More  than  once  upon  this  journey,  and  now  again 
as  he  stood  pondering  at  this  journey's  end,  tracing  figures 
in  the  dust  with  his  stick,  the  thought  came  into  his  mind, 
what  was  there  he  could  interpose  between  himself  and  it  ? 

The  major,  who  had  been  blowing  and  panting  all  the  way 
down,  like  another  engine,  and  whose  eye  had  often  wan- 
dered from  his  newspaper  to  leer  at  the  prospect,  as  if  there 
were  a  procession  of  discomfited  Miss  Toxes  pouring  out  in 


292  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  smoke  of  the  train,  and  flying  away  over  the  fields  to  hide 
themselves  in  any  place  of  refuge,  aroused  his  friend  by  in- 
forming him  that  the  post-horses  were  harnessed  and  the 
carriage  ready. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  rapping  him  on  his  arm  with 
his  cane,  "  don't  be  thoughtful.  It's  a  bad  habit.  Old  Joe, 
sir,  wouldn't  be  as  tough  as  you  see  him,  if  he  had  ever  en- 
couraged it.  You  are  too  great  a  man,  Dombey,  to  be 
thoughtful.  In  your  position,  sir,  you're  far  above  that  kind 
of  thing." 

The  major  even  in  his  friendly  remonstrances,  thus  con- 
sulting the  dignity  and  honor  of  Mr.  Dombey,  and  showing 
a  lively  sense  of  their  importance,  Mr.  Dombey  felt  more 
than  ever  disposed  to  defer  to  a  gentleman  possessing  so 
much  good  sense  and  such  a  well-regulated  mind  ;  accord- 
ingly he  made  an  effort  to  listen  to  the  major's  stories  as 
they  trotted  along  the  turnpike  road  ;  and  the  major,  finding 
both  the  pace  and  the  road  a  great  deal  better  adapted  to 
his  conversational  powers  than  the  mode  of  traveling  they 
had  just  relinquished,  came  out  for  his  entertainment. 

In  this  flow  of  spirits  and  conversation,  only  interrupted 
by  his  usual  plethoric  symptoms,  and  by  intervals  of  lunch, 
and  from  time  to  time  by  some  violent  assault  upon  the  na- 
tive, who  wore  a  pair  of  ear-rings  in  his  dark-brown  ears,  and 
on  whom  his  European  clothes  sat  with  an  outlandish  im- 
possibility of  adjustment — being  of  their  own  accord,  and 
without  any  reference  to  the  tailor's  art,  long  where  they 
ought  to  be  short,  short  where  they  ought  to  be  long,  tight 
where  they  ought  to  be  loose,  and  loose  where  they  ought  to 
be  tight — and  to  which  he  imparted  a  new  grace,  whenever 
the  major  attacked  him,  by  shrinking  into  them  like  a  shriv- 
eled nut,  or  a  cold  monkey — in  this  flow  of  spirits  and  con- 
versation the  major  continued  all  day  :  so  that  when  evening 
came  on,  and  found  them  trotting  through  the  green  and 
leafy  road  near  Leamington,  the  major's  voice,  what  with 
talking  and  eating,  and  chuckling  and  choking,  appeared  to 
be  in  the  box  under  the  rumble,  or  in  some  neighboring  hay- 
stack. Nor  did  the  major  improve  it  at  the  E,oyal  Hotel, 
where  rooms  and  dinner  had  been  ordered,  and  where  he  so 
oppressed  his  organs  of  speech  by  eating  and  drinking,  that 
when  he  retired  to  bed  he  had  no  voice  at  all,  except  to 
cough  with,  and  could  only  make  himself  intelligible  tc  ^e 
dark  servant  by  gasping  at  him. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  293 

He  not  only  rose  next  morning,  however,  like  a  giant  re- 
freshed, but  conducted  himself,  at  breakfast,  like  a  giant  re- 
freshing. At  this  meal  they  arranged  their  daily  habits. 
The  major  was  to  take  the  responsibility  of  ordering  every 
thing  to  eat  and  drink  ;  and  they  were  to  have  a  late  break- 
fast together  every  morning,  and  a  late  dinner  together  every- 
day. Mr.  Dombey  would  prefer  remaining  in  his  ovrn  room, 
or  walking  in  the  country  by  himself,  on  that  first  day  of 
their  sojourn  at  Leamington  ;  but  next  morning  he  would  be 
happy  to  accompany  the  major  to  the  pump-room,  and  about 
the  town.  So  they  parted  until  dinner-time.  Mr.  Dombey 
retired  to  nurse  his  wholesome  thoughts  in  his  own  way.  The 
major,  attended  by  the  native  carrying  a  camp-stool,  a  great- 
coat, and  an  umbrella,  swaggered  up  and  down  through  all 
the  public  places  :  looking  into  subscription-books  to  find 
out  who  was  there,  looking  up  old  ladies  by  whom  he  was 
much  admired,  reporting  J.  B.  tougher  than  ever,  and  puffing 
his  rich  friend  Dombey  wherever  he  went.  There  never  was 
a  man  who  stood  by  a  friend  more  staunchly  than  the  major, 
when,  in  puffing  him,  he  puffed  himself. 

It  was  surprising  how  much  new  conversation  the  major 
had  to  let  off  at  dinner-time,  and  what  occasion  he  gave  Mr. 
Dombey  to  admire  his  social  qualities.  At  breakfast  next 
morning,  he  knew  the  contents  of  the  latest  newspapers  re- 
ceived ;  and  mentioned  several  subjects  in  connection  with 
them,  on  which  his  opinion  had  recently  been  sought  by  per- 
sons of  such  power  and  might,  that  they  were  only  to  be  ob- 
scurely hinted  at.  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been  so  long  shut 
up  within  himself,  and  who  had  rarely  at  any  time  over- 
stepped the  enchanted  circle  within  which  the  operations  of 
Dombey  and  Son  were  conducted,  began  to  think  this  an  im- 
provement on  his  solitary  life  ;  and  in  place  of  excusing  him- 
self for  another  day,  as  he  had  thought  of  doing  when  alone, 
walked  out  with  the  major  arm  in  arm. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

NEW    FACES. 

The  major,  more  blue-faced  and  staring— more  over-ripe, 
as  it  were,  than  ever — and  giving  vent,  every  now  and  then, 
to  one  of  the  horse's  coughs,  not  so  much  of  necessity  as  in  a 
spontaneous  explosion  of  importance,  v/alked  arm  in   arm 


294  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  Mr.  Dombey  up  the  sunny  side  of  the  way,  with  his 
cheeks  sweUing  over  his  tight  stock,  his  legs  majestically 
wide  apart,  and  his  great  head  wagging  from  side  to  side,  as 
if  he  were  remonstrating  within  himself  for  being  such  a  cap- 
tivatmg  object.  They  had  not  walked  many  yards  before 
the  major  encountered  somebody  he  know,  nor  many  yards 
further  before  the  major  encountered  somebody  else  he 
knew,  but  he  merely  shook  his  fingers  at  them  as  he  passed, 
and  led  Mr.  Dombey  on  :  pointing  out  the  localities  as  they 
went,  and  enlivening  the  walk  with  any  current  scandal  sug- 
gested by  them. 

In  this  manner  the  major  and  Mr,  Dombey  were  walking 
arm  in  arm,  much  to  their  own  satisfaction,  when  they  be- 
held advancing  toward  them  a  wheeled  chair,  in  which  a 
lady  was  seated,  indolently  steering  her  carriage  by  a  kind  of 
rudder  in  front,  while  it  was  propelled  by  some  unseen  power 
in  the  rear.  Although  the  lady  was  not  young,  she  was  very 
blooming  in  the  face — quite  rosy — and  her  dress  and  atti- 
tude were  perfectly  juvenile.  Walking  by  the  side  of  the 
chair,  and  carrying  her  gossamer  parasol  with  a  proud  and 
weary  air,  as  if  so  great  an  effort  must  be  soon  abandoned 
and  the  parasol  dropped,  sauntered  a  much  younger  lady, 
very  handsome,  very  haughty,  very  willful,  who  tossed  her 
head  and  dropped  her  eyelids,  as  though,  if  there  were  any 
thing  in  all  the  world  worth  looking  into  save  a  mirror,  it 
certainly  was  not  the  earth  or  sk}'. 

"  Why,  what  the  devil  have  we  here,  sir  !  "  cried  the  ma- 
jor, stopping,  as  this  little  cavalcade  drew  near, 

"  My  dearest  Edith  !  "  dravvled  the  lady  in  the  chair, 
"  Major  Bagstock  !  " 

The  major  no  sooner  heard  the  voice  than  he  relinquished 
Mr.  Dombey's  arm,  darted  forward,  took  the  hand  of  the 
lady  in  the  chair,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  With  no  less 
gallantry,  the  major  folded  both  his  gloves  upon  his  heart, 
and  bowed  low  to  the  other  lady.  And  now,  the  chair  hav- 
ing stopped,  the  motive  power  became  visible  in  the  shape  of 
a  flushed  page  pushing  behind,  who  seemed  to  have  in  part 
outgrown  and  in  part  outpushed  his  strength,  for  when  he 
stood  upright  he  was  tail,  and  wan,  and  thin,  and  his  plight 
appeared  the  more  forlorn  from  his  having  injured  the  shape 
of  his  hat  by  butting  at  the  carriage  with  his  head  to  urge  it 
forward,  as  is  sometimes  done  by  elephants  in  Oriental 
countries. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  295 

"  Joe  Bagstock,"  said  the  major,  to  both  ladies,  "  is  a 
proud  and  happy  man  for  the  rest  of  his  Hfe." 

"You  false  creature,"  said  the  old  lady  in  the  chair,  insip- 
idly.    "  Where  do  you   come  from  ?     I  can't  bear  you." 

"  Then  suffer  old  Joe  to  present  a  friend,  ma'am,"  said 
the  major,  promptly,  "  as  a  reason  for  being  tolerated.  Mr. 
Dombey,  Mrs.  Skewton."  The  lady  in  the  chair  was  grac- 
ious. "  Mr.  Dombey,  Mrs.  Granger."  The  lady  with  the 
parasol  was  faintly  conscious  of  Mr.  Dombey's  taking  off  his 
hat,  and  bowing  low.  "  I  am  delighted,  sir,"  said  the  major, 
"  to  have  this  opportunity." 

The  major  seemed  in  earnest,  for  he  looked  at  all  the 
three,  and  leered  in  his  ugliest  manner. 

"Mrs.  Skewton,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "makes  havoc 
in  the  heart  of  old  Josh." 

Mr.  Dombey  signified  that  he  didn't  wonder  at  it.  "  You 
perfidious  goblin,"  said  the  lady  in  the  chair,  "  have  done. 
How  long  have  you  been  here,  bad  man  ?  " 

"One  day,"  replied  the  major. 

"And  can  you  be  a  day,  or  even  a  minute,"  returned  the 
lady,  slightly  settling  her  false  curls  and  false  eyebrows  with 
her  fan,  and  showing  her  false  teeth,  set  off  by  her  false  com- 
plexion, "  in  the  garden  of  what's-its-name — " 

"  Eden,  I  suppose,  mamma,"  interrupted  the  younger  lady, 
scornfully. 

"  My  dear  Edith,"  said  the  other,  "  I  can  not  help  it.  I 
never  can  remember  those  frightful  names — without  having 
your  whole  Soul  and  Being  inspired  by  the  sight  of  nature  ; 
by  the  perfume,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  rustling  a  handkerchief 
that  was  faint  and  sickly  with  essences,  "  of  her  artless  breath, 
you  creature  !  " 

The  discrepancy  between  Mrs.  Skewton's  fresh  enthusiasm 
of  words  and  forlornly  faded  manner  was  hardly  less  obser- 
vable than  that  between  her  age,  which  v/as  about  seventy, 
and  her  dress,  which  would  have  been  youthful  for  twenty- 
seven.  Her  attitude  in  the  wheeled  chair  (  which  she  never 
varied)  was  one  in  which  she  had  been  taken  in  a  barouche, 
some  fifty  years  before,  by  a  then  fashionable  artist,  who  had 
appended  to  his  published  sketch  the  name  of  Cleopatra  : 
in  consequence  of  a  discovery  made  by  the  critics  of  the 
time,  that  it  bore  an  exact  resemblance  to  that  princess  as 
she  reclined  on  board  her  galley.  Mrs.  Skewton  was  a 
beauty  then,  and  bucks  threw  wine-glasses  over  their  heads 


296  DOxVIBEY  AND  SON. 

by  dozens  in  her  honor.  The  beauty  and  the  barouche  had 
both  passed  away,  but  she  still  preserved  the  attitude,  and  for 
this  reason  expressly  maintained  the  wheeled  chair  and  the 
butting  page  :  there  being  nothing  whatever,  except  the  atti- 
tude, to  prevent  her  from  walking, 

'*  Mr.  Dombey  is  devoted  to  nature,  I  trust?"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  settling  her  diamond  brooch.  And  by-the-way,  she 
chiefly  lived  upon  the  reputation  of  some  diamonds,  and  her 
family  connections. 

"  My  friend  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  "may 
be  devoted  to  her  in  secret,  but  a  man  who  is  paramount  in 
the  greatest  city  in  the  universe — " 

"  No  one  can  be  a  stranger,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "to  Mr. 
Dombey' s  immense  influence," 

As  Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  the  compliment  with  a 
bend  of  his  head,  the  younger  lady,  glancing  at  him,  met  his 
eyes. 

"You  reside  here,  madam  ?  "  said  Mr,  Dombey,  address- 
ing her. 

"  No,  we  have  been  to  a  great  many  places.  To  Harrow- 
gate  and  Scarborough,  and  into  Devonshire.  We  have  been 
visiting,  and  resting  here  and  there.     Mamma  likes  change," 

"  Edith  of  course  does  not,"  said  Mrs,  Skewton,  with  a 
ghastly  archness. 

"  I  have  not  found  that  there  is  any  change  in  such  places," 
was  the  answer,  delivered  with  supreme  indifference, 

"  They  libel  me.  There  is  only  one  change,  Mr,  Dombey," 
observed  Mrs,  Skewton,  with  a  mincing  sigh,  "  for  which  I 
really  care,  and  that  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  permitted  to 
enjoy.  People  can  not  spare  one.  But  seclusion  and  con- 
templation are  my  what's-his-name — " 

"  If  you  mean  paradise,  mamma,  you  had  better  say  so,  to 
render  yourself  intelligible,"  said  the  younger  lady, 

"My  dearest  Edith,"  returned  Mrs.  Skewton,  "you  know 
that  I  am  wholly  dependent  upon  you  for  those  odious 
names.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Dombey,  nature  intended  me  for 
an  Arcadian.  I  am  thrown  away  in  society.  Cows  are  my 
passion.  What  I  have  ever  sighed  for,  has  been  to  retreat  to 
a  Swiss  farm,  and  live  entirely  surrounded  by  cows — and 
china." 

This  curious  association  of  objects,  suggesting  a  remem- 
brance of  the  celebrated  bull  who  got  by  mistake  into  a 
crockery-shop,   was   received  with  perfect    gravity   by  Mr. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  297 

Dombey,   who   intimated  his  opinion   that  nature  was,  no 
doubt,  a  very  respectable  institution. 

'*  What  I  want,"  drawled  Mrs.  Skewton,  pinching  her 
shriveled  throat,  "  is  heart."  It  was  frightfully  true  in  one 
sense,  if  not  in  that  in  which  she  used  the  phrase.  ^'  What 
I  want,  is  frankness,  confidence,  less  conventionality,  and 
freer  play  of  soul.     We  are  so  dreadfully  artificial." 

We  were,  indeed. 

'*  In  short,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  want  nature  every- 
where.    It  would  be  so  extremely  charming." 

"  Nature  is  inviting  usawaynow,  mamma,  if  you  are  ready," 
said  the  younger  lady,  curling  her  handsome  lip.  At  this 
hint,  the  wan  page,  who  had  been  surveying  the  party  over 
the  top  of  the  chair,  vanished  behind  it,  as  if  the  ground  had 
swallowed  him  up. 

"  Stop  a  moment.  Withers  !  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  as  the 
chair  began  to  move  ;  calling  to  the  page  with  all  the  lan- 
guid dignity  with  which  she  had  called  in  days  of  yore  to  a 
coachman  with  a  wig,  cauliflower  nosegay,  and  silk  stockings. 

"  Where  are  you  staying,  abomination  ?  " 

The  major  was  staying  at  the  Royal  Hotel,  with  his  friend 
Dombey. 

"  You  may  come  and  see  us  any  evening  when  you  are 
good,"  lisped*  Mrs.  Skewton.  "  If  Mr.  Dombey  will  honor  us, 
we  shall  be  happy.     Withers,  go  on  !  " 

The  major  again  pressed  to  his  blue  lips  the  tips  of  the 
fingers  that  were  disposed  on  the  ledge  of  the  wheeled  chair 
with  careful  carelessness,  after  the  Cleopatra  model  :  and 
Mr.  Dombey  bowled.  The  elder  lady  honored  them  both 
with  a  very  gracious  smile  and  a  girlish  wave  of  her  hand  ;  the 
younger  lady  with  the  very  slightest  inclination  of  her  head 
that  common  courtesy  allowed. 

The  last  glimpse  of  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  mother,  with 
that  patched  color  on  it  which  the  sun  made  infinitely  more 
haggard  and  dismal  than  any  want  of  color  could  have  been, 
and  of  the  proud  beauty  of  the  daughter  with  her  graceful 
figure  and  erect  deportment,  engendered  such  an  involuntary 
disposition  on  the  part  of  both  the  major  and  Mr.  Dombey 
to  look  after  them,  that  they  both  turned  at  the  same  mo- 
ment. The  page,  nearly  as  much  aslant  as  his  own  shad- 
ow, was  toiling  after  the  chair,  uphill,  like  a  slow  battering- 
ram  ;  the  top  of  Cleopatra's  bonnet  was  fluttering  in  exactly 
the  same  corner  to  the  inch  as  before  ;  and  the  beauty,  loiter- 


29S  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ing  by  herself  a  little  in  advance,  expressed  in  all  her  elegant 
form,  from  head  to  foot,  the  same  supreme  disregard  of 
every  thing  and  every  body. 

*'  I  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  as  they  resumed 
their  walk  again.  "  If  Joe  Bagstock  were  a  younger  man, 
there's  not  a  woman  in  the  world  whom  he'd  prefer  for  Mrs. 
Bagstock  to  that  woman.  By  George,  sir  !  "  said  the  major, 
"  she's  superb  !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  the  daughter  !  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Is  Joey  B.  a  turnip,  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  that  he 
should  mean  the  mother  !  " 

*'  You  were  complimentary  to  the  mother,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

^  "  An  ancient  flame,  sir,"  chuckled  Major  Bagstock.     "  De- 
vilish ancient.     I  humor  her." 

"  She  impresses  me  as  being  perfectly  genteel,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"Genteel,  sir,"  said  the  major,  stopping  short,  and  staring 
in  his  companion's  face.  "  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  sir, 
is  sister  to  the  late  Lord  Feenix,  and  aunt  to  the  present 
lord.  The  family  are  not  wealthy — they're  poor,  indeed — • 
and  she  lives  upon  a  small  jointure  ;  but  if  you  come  to 
blood,  sir  !  "  The  major  gave  a  flourish  with  his  stick  and 
walked  on  again,  in  despair  of  being  able  to  say  what  you 
came  to,  it  you  came  to  that. 

"  You  addressed  the  daughter,  I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, after  a  short  pause,  ''  as  Mrs.  Granger." 

"Edith  Skewton,  sir,"  returned  the  major,  stopping  short 
again,  and  punching  a  mark  in  the  ground  with  his  cane,  to 
represent  her,  "  married  (at  eighteen)  Granger  of  Ours  !  " 
whom  the  major  indicated  by  another  punch.  "  Granger, 
sir,"  said  the  major,  tapping  the  last  ideal  portrait,  and  roll- 
ing his  head  emphatically,  "  was  Colonel  of  Ours  :  a  de-vilish 
handsome  fellow,  sir,  of  forty-one.  He  died,  sir,  in  the  sec- 
ond year  of  his  marriage."  The  major  ran  the  representa- 
tive of  the  deceased  Granger  through  and  through  the  body 
with  his  walking-stick,  and  went  on  again,  carrying  his  stick 
over  his  shoulder. 

How  long  is   this  ago  ? "   asked  Mr.    Dombey,   making 
another  halt. 

"  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  replied  the  major,  shutting  one  eye, 
putting  his  head  on  one  side,  passing  his  cane  into  his  left 
hand,  and  smoothing  his  shirt-frill  with  his  right,  "is,  at  this 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  299 

present  time,  not  quite  thirty.  And,  damme,  sir,"  said  the 
major,  shouldering  his  stick  once  more,  and  walking  on 
again,  "  she  is  a  peerless  woman  !  " 

"  Was  there  any  family  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  presently. 
"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  major.     "  There  was  a  boy." 
Mr.  Dombey's  eyes  sought  the  ground,  and  a  shade   came 
over  his  face. 

"  Who  was  drowned,  sir,"  pursued  the  major.  "When  a 
child  of  four  or  five  years  old." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  raising  his  head. 
"  By  the  upsetting  of  a  boat  in  which  his  nurse  had    no 
business  to  have  put  him,"  said  the  major. 

"  That's  his  history.  Edith  Granger  is  Edith  Granger 
still  ;  but  if  tough  old  Joey  B.,  sir,  were  a  little  younger  and 
a  little  richer,  the  name  of  that  immortal  paragon  should  be 
Bagstock." 

The  major  heaved  his  shoulders  and  his  cheeks,  and 
laughed  more  like  an  over-fed  Mephistopheles  than  ever,  as 
he  said  the  words. 

"  Provided  the  lady  made  no  objection,  I  suppose  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  coldly. 

"  By  Gad,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  the  Bagstock  breed  are 
not  accustomed  to  that  sort  of  obstacle.  Though  it's  true 
enough  that  Edith  might  have  married  twen-ty  times  but  for 
being  proud,  sir,  proud." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  by  his  face,  to  think  no  worse  of  her 
for  that. 

"  It's  a  great  quality,  after  all,"  said  the  major.  "  By  the 
Lord,  it's  a  high  quality  !  Dombey  !  You  are  proud  ^  your- 
self, and  your  friend,  Old  Joe,  respects  you  for  it,  sir." 

With  this  tribute  to  the  character  of  his  ally,  which  seemed 
to  be  wrung  from  him  by  the  force  of  circumstances  and  the 
irresistible  tendency  of  their  conversation,  the  major  closed 
the  subject,  and  glided  into  a  general  exposition  of  the  extent 
to  which  he  had  been  beloved  and  doted  on  by  splendid 
women  and  brilliant  creatures. 

On  the  next  day  but  one,  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  en- 
countered the  honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter  in 
the  pump-room  ;  on  the  day  after,  they  met  them  again  very 
near  the  place  where  they  had  met  them  first.  After  meeting 
them  thus  three  or  four  times  in  all,  it  became  a  point  of  mere 
civility  to  old  accuaintances  that  the  major  should  go  there 
one  evening.     Mr.  Dombey  had  not  originally   intended  to 


300  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

pay  visits,  but  on  the  major  announcing  this  intention,  he 
said  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  him.  So 
the  major  told  the  native  to  go  round  before  dinner,  and  say, 
with  his  and  Mr.  Dombey's  compliments,  that  they  would 
have  the  honor  of  visiting  the  ladies  that  same  evening,  if  the 
ladies  were  alone.  In  answer  to  which  message,  the  native 
brought  back  a  very  small  note  with  a  very  large  quantity  of 
scent  about  it,  indited  by  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  to 
Major  Bagstock,  and  briefly  saying,  ''  You  are  a  shocking 
bear,  and  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  forgive  you  ;  but  if  you 
are  very  good  indeed,"  which  was  underlined,  "you  may 
come.  Compliments  (in  which  Edith  unites)  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey." 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton  and  her  daughter,  Mrs. 
Granger,  resided,  while  at  Leamington,  in  lodgings  that  were 
fashionable  enough  and  dear  enough,  but  rather  limited  in 
point  of  space  and  conveniences  ;  so  that  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
Skewton,  being  in  bed,  had  her  feet  in  the  window  and  her 
head  in  the  fire-place,  while  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton's 
maid  was  quartered  in  a  closet  within  the  drawing-room,  so 
extremely  small,  that,  to  avoid  developing  the  whole  of  its 
accommodations,  she  was  obliged  to  writhe  in  and  out  of 
the  door  like  a  beautiful  serpent.  Withers,  the  wan  page, 
slept  out  of  the  house  immediately  under  the  tiles  at  a  neigh- 
boring milk-shop  ;  and  the  wheeled  chair,  which  was  the  stone 
of  that  young  Sisyphus,  passed  the  night  in  a  shed  belonging 
to  the  same  dairy,  where  new-laid  eggs  were  produced  by  the 
poultry  connected  with  the  establishment,  who  roosted  on  a 
broken  donkey-cart,  persuaded,  to  all  appearance,  that  it 
grew  there,  and  was  a  species  of  tree. 

Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major  found  Mrs.  Skewton  arranged, 
as  Cleopatra,  among  the  cushions  of  a  sofa :  very  airily 
dressed  ;  and  certainly  not  resembling  Shakespeare's  Cleopa- 
tra, whom  age  could  not  wither.  On  their  way  up  stairs  they 
had  heard  the  sound  of  a  harp,  but  it  had  ceased  on 
their  being  announced,  and  Edith  now  stood  beside  it  hand- 
somer and  haughtier  than  ever.  It  was  a  remarkable  char- 
acteristic of  this  lady's  beauty  that  it  appeared  to  vaunt  and 
assert  itself  without  her  aid,  and  against  her  will.  She  knew 
that  she  was  beautiful  :  it  was  impossible  that  it  could  be 
otherwise  :  but  she  seemed  with  her  own  pride  to  defy  her 
very  self. 

Whether  she  held  cheap  attractions  that  could  only  call 
forth  admiration  that  was  worthless  to  her,  or  whether  sb§ 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  301 

designed  to  render  them  more  precious  to  admirers  by  this 
usage  of  them,  those  to  whom  they  luere  precious  seldom 
paused  to  consider. 

"I  hope,  Mrs.  Granger,"  said  :^Ir.  Dombey,  advancing  a 
step  toward  her,  "  we  are  not  the  cause  of  your  ceasing  to 
play?" 

"  You  ?  oh  no  !  " 

"  Why  do  you  not  go  on,  then,  my  dearest  Edith  ?  "  said 
Cleopatra, 

"  I  left  off  as  T  began — of  my  own  fancy." 

The  exquisite  indifference  of  her  manner  in  saying  this— an 
indifference  quite  removed  from  dullness  or  insensibility,  for 
it  was  pointed  with  proud  purpose — was  well  set  off  by  the 
carelessness  with  which  she  drew  her  hand  across  the  strings, 
and  came  from  that  part  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  her  languishing  mother, 
playing  with  a  hand-screen,  *'  that  occasionally  my  dearest 
Edith  and  myself  actually  almost  differ — " 

"  Not  quite,  sometimes,  mamma  ?  "  said  Edith. 

*'  Oh  never  quite,  my  darling  !  Fie,  fie  !  it  would  break 
my  heart,"  returned  her  mother,  making  a  faint  attempt  to  pat 
her  with  the  screen,  which  Edith  made  no  movement  to  meet, 
" — about  these  cold  conventionalities  of  manner  that  are 
observed  in  little  things!  Why  are  we  not  more  natural  ? 
Dear  me  !  With  all  those  yearnings,  gushings  and  impulsive 
throbbings  that  we  have  implanted  in  our  souls,  and  which 
are  so  very  charming,  why  are  we  not  more  natural  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  said  it  was  very  true,  very  true. 

"  We  could  be  more  natural,  I  suppose,  if  we  tried  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Skewton. 

Mr.  Dombey  thought  it  possible. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  ma'am,"  said  the  major.  "  We  couldn't 
afford  it.  Unless  the  world  was  peopled  with  J.  B.'  s— tough 
and  blunt  old  Joes,  ma'am,  plain  red  herrings  vvith  hard  roes, 
sir — we  couldn't  afford  it.     It  wouldn't  do." 

"You  naughty  infidel,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  ''be  mute."  _ 

"■  Cleopatra  commands,"  returned  the  major,  kissing  his 
hand,  "  and  Antony  Bagstock  obeys." 

"  The  man  has  no  sensitiveness,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
cruelly  holding  up  the  hand-screen  so  as  to  shut  the  major 
out.  "  No  sympathy.  And  v\-hat  do  we  live  for  but  sym- 
pathy !  What  else  is  so  extremely  charming  !  W^ithout  that 
gleam  of  sunshine  on  our  cold,  cold  earth,"  said  ]Mrs.  Skew- 
tQU,  arranging  her  lace  tucker,  and  complacently  observing 


302  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  effect  of  her  bare  lean  arm,  looking  upward  from  the 
wrist,  "  how  could  we  possibly  bear  it  ?  In  short,  obdurate 
man  !  "  glancing  at  the  major  round  the  screen,  "  I  would 
have  my  world  all  heart  ;  and  Faith  is  so  excessively  charming 
that  I  won't  allow  you  to  disturb  it,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

The  major  replied  that  it  was  hard  in  Cleopatra  to  require 
the  world  to  be  all  heart,  and  yet  to  appropriate  to  herself  the 
hearts  of  all  the  world  ;  which  obliged  Cleopatra  to  remind 
him  that  flattery  was  insupportable  to  her,  and  that  if  he  had 
the  boldness  to  address  her  in  that  strain  any  more,  she  would 
positively  send  him  home. 

Withers  the  Wan,  at  this  period,  handing  round  the  tea, 
Mr.  Dombey  again  addressed  himself  to  Edith. 

"  There  is  not  much  company  here,  it  would  seem  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  own  portentous,  gentlemanly  way. 

"  I  believe  not.     We  see  none." 

"  Why  really,"  observed  Mrs.  Skewton  from  her  couch, 
"  there  are  no  people  here  just  now  with  whom  we  care  to 
associate." 

"  They  have  not  enough  heart,"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 
The  very  twilight  of  a  smile — so  singularly  were  its  light  and 
darkness  blended. 

"  My  dearest  Edith  rallies  me,  you  see  !  "  said  her  mother, 
shaking  her  head  :  which  shook  a  little  of  itself  sometimes, 
as  if  the  palsy  twinkled  now  and  then  in  opposition  to  the 
diamonds.     "  Wicked  one  !  " 

"  You  have  been  here  before,  if  I  am  not  mistaken  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey.     Still  to  Edith. 

"  Oh,  several  times.     I  think  we  have  been  everywhere." 

"  A  beautiful  country  !  " 

"  I  suppose  it  is.     Every  body  says  so." 

"  Your  cousin  Feenix  raves  about  it,  Edith,"  interposed 
her  mother  from  her  couch. 

The  daughter  slightly  turned  her  graceful  head,  and  rais- 
ing her  eyebrows  by  a  hair's-breadth,  as  if  her  cousin  Feenix 
were  of  all  the  mortal  world  the  least  to  be  regarded,  turned 
her  eyes  again  toward  Mr.   Dombey. 

"  I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  my  good  taste,  that  I  am  tired 
of  the  neighborhood,"  she  said. 

''You  have  almost  reason  to  be,madam,"  he  replied. glancing 
at  a  variety  of  landscape  drawings,  of  which  he  had  already 
recognized  several  as  representing  neighboring  points  of  view, 
and  which  were  strewn  abundantly  about  the  room^  "  if  tbes^ 
beautiful  productions  arc  from  your  hand/' 


DOMBRY  AND  SON.  3^3 

She  gave  him  no  reply,   but    sat   in   a    disdainful  beauty, 
quite  amazing. 

"  Have  they  that  interest  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Are  they 

yours  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  And  vou  plav,  I  already  know." 
''Yes.'' 
"  And  sing  ?  " 
"  Yes." 

She  answered  all  these  questions  with  a  strange  reluctance, 
and  with  that  remarkable  air  of  opposition  to  herself,  already 
noticed  as  belonging  to  her  beauty.  Yet  she  was  not  embar- 
rassed, but  wholly  self-possessed.  Neither  did  she  seem  to 
wish  to  avoid  the  conversation,  for  she  addressed  her  face, 
and — so  far  as  she  could — her  manner  also,  to  him  ;  and 
continued  to  do  so,  when  he  was  silent. 

"  You  have  many  resources  against  weariness  at  lea:st,"  said 
Mr.   Dombey. 

"  Whatever  their  efficiency  may  be,"  she  returned,  "'  you 
know  them  all  now.     I  have  no  more." 

"  Mav  I  hope  to  prove  them  all  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  gallantry,  laying  down  a  drav>-ing  he  had  held,  and 
motioning  toward  the  harp. 

"  Oh  certainly  !     If  you  desire  it  I  " 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  crossing  by  her  mother's  couch, 
and  directing  a  stately  look  toward  her,  which  was  instan- 
taneous in  its  duration,  but  inclusive  (if  any  one  had  seen  it) 
of  a  multitude  of  expressions,  among  which  that  of  the  twi- 
light smile,  without  the  smile  itself,  overshadowed  all  the  rest, 
went  out  of  the  room. 

The  major,  who  was  quite  forgiven  by  this  time,  had 
wheeled  a  little  table  up  to  Cleopatra,  and  was  sitting  down 
to  play  picquet  with  her.  Mr.  Dombey,  not  knowing  the 
game,  sat  down  to  watch  them,  for  his  edification,  until 
Edith  should  return. 

"We  are  going  to  have  some  music,  Mr.  Dombey,  I  hope?" 
said  Cleopatra. 

"  Mrs.  Granger  has  been  kind. enough  to  promise  so,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Ah  !     That's  very  nice.     Do  you  propose,  major?  " 
"  No,  ma'am,"  said'  the  major.     "  Couldn't  do  it." 
"  You're  a  barl^arous  being,"  replied  the  lady,  "  and  my 
hand's  destroyed.     You  are  fond  of  mAisic,  'Mr.   Dombey  ?  " 
"  Eminentlv  so,"  v\-as  Mr.  Dombey 's  answer. 


304  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Yes.  It's  very  nice,"  said  Cleopatra,  looking  at  her 
cards.  "  So  much  heart  in  it — undeveloped  recollections  of 
a  previous  state  of  existence — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly 
charming.  Do  you  know,"  simpered  Cleopatra,  reversing 
the  knave  of  clubs,  who  had  come  into  her  game  with  his 
heels  uppermost,  "  that  if  any  thing  could  tempt  me  to  put  a 
period  to  my  life,  it  would  be  curiosity  to  find  out  what  it's 
all  about,  and  what  it  means  ;  there  are  so  many  provoking 
mysteries,  really,  that  are  hidden  from  us.  Major,  you  to 
play." 

The  major  played  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  on  for  his 
instruction,  would  soon  have  been  in  a  state  of  dire  confusion 
but  that  he  gave  no  attention  to  the  game  whatever,  and  sat 
wondering  instead  when  Edith  would  come  back. 

She  came  at  last,  and  sat  down  to  her  harp,  and  Mr. 
Dombey  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  listening.  He  had  little 
taste  for  music,  and  no  knowledge  of  the  strain  she  played, 
but  he  saw  her  bending  over  it,  and  perhaps  he  heard  among 
the  sounding  strings  some  distant  music  of  his  own,  that 
tamed  the  monster  of  the  iron  road,  and  made  it  less  inex- 
orable. 

Cleopatra  had  a  sharp  eye,  verily,  at  picquet.  It  glistened 
like  a  bird's  and  did  not  fix  itself  upon  the  game,  but  pierced 
the  room  from  end  to  end,  and  gleamed  on  harp,  performer, 
listener,  every  thing. 

When  the  haughty  beauty  had  concluded,  she  arose,  and 
receiving  Mr.  Dombey's  thanks  and  compliments  in  exactly 
the  same  manner  as  before,  went  with  scarcely  any  pause  to 
the  piano,  and  began  there. 

Edith  Granger,  any  song  but  that  !  Edith  Granger,  you  are 
very  handsome,  and  your  touch  upon  the  keys  is  brilliant, 
and  your  voice  is  deep  and  rich  ;  but  not  the  air  that  his 
neglected  daughter  sang  to  his  dead  son  ! 

Alas  !  he  knows  it  not ;  and  if  he  did,  what  air  of  hers 
would  stir  him,  rigid  man  !  Sleep,  lonely  Florence,  sleep  ! 
Peace  in  thy  dreams,  although  the  night  has  turned  dark, 
and  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and  threaten  to  discharge  them- 
selves in  hail  ! 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  305 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

A    TRIFLE   OF    MANAGEMENT   BY    MR.    CARKER   THE   MANAGER- 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  sat  at  his  desk,  smooth  and  soft 
as  usual,  reading  those  letters  which  were  reserved  for  him 
to  open,  backing  them  occasionally  with  such  memoranda 
and  references  as  their  business  purport  required,  and  par- 
celing them  out  into  little  heaps  for  distribution  through  the 
several  departments  of  the  house.  The  post  had  come  in 
heavy  that  morning,  and  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  had  a 
good  deal  to  do. 

The  general  action  of  a  man  so  engaged — pausing  to  look 
over  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  dealing  them  round  in 
various  portions,  taking  up  another  bundle  and  examining  its 
contents  with  knitted  brows  and  pursed-outlips — dealing,  and 
sorting,  and  pondering  by  turns — would  easily  suggest  some 
whimsical  resemblance  to  a  player  at  cards.  The  face  of 
Mr.  Carker  the  manager  was  in  good  keeping  with  such  a 
fancy.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  studied  his  play 
warily  :  who  made  himself  master  of  all  the  strong  and  weak 
points  of  the  game  :  who  registered  the  cards  in  his  mind  as 
they  fell  about  him,  knew  exactly  what  was  on  them,  what 
they  missed,  and  what  they  made  :  who  was  crafty  to  find 
out  what  the  other  players  held,  and  who  never  betrayed  his 
own  hand. 

The  letters  were  in  various  languages,  but  Mr.  Carker  the 
manager  read  them  all.  If  there  had  been  any  thing  in  the 
offices  of  Dombey  and  Son  that  he  could  7iot  read,  there 
would  have  been  a  card  wanting  in  the  pack.  He  read 
almost  at  a  glance,  and  made  combinations  of  one  letter 
with  another  and  one  business  with  another  as  he  went  on, 
adding  new  matter  to  the  heaps — much  as  a  man  would 
know  the  cards  at  sight,  and  work  out  their  combinations  in 
his  mind  after  they  were  turned.  Something  too  deep  for 
a  partner,  and  much  too  deep  for  an  adversary,  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  sat  in  the  rays  of  the  sun  that  came  down  slant- 
ing on  him  through  the  sky-light,  playing  his  game  alone. 

And  although  it  is  not  among  the  instincts,  wild  or  domes- 
tic, of  the  cat  tribe  to  play  at  cards,  feline  from  sole  to 
crown  was  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  he  basked  in  the 
strip  of  summer-light  and  warnith  that  shone  upon  his 
table  and  the  ground  as  if  they  were  a  crooked  dial-plate, 


3o6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  himself  the  only  figure  on  it.  With  hair  and  whiskers 
deficient  in  color  at  all  times,  but  feebler  than  common  in 
the  rich  sunshine,  and  more  like  the  coat  of  a  sandy  tor- 
toise-shell cat ;  with  long  nails,  nicely  pared  and  sharpened  ; 
with  a  natural  antipathy  to.  any  speck  of  dirt,  which  made 
him  pause  sometimes  and  watch  the  falling  motes 
of  dust,  and  rub  them  off  his  smooth  white  hand  or  glossy 
linen  :  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  sly  of  manner,  sharp  of 
tooth,  soft  of  foot,  watchful  of  eye,  oily  of  tongue,  cruel  of 
heart,  nice  of  habit,  sat  with  a  dainty  steadfastness  and 
patience  at  his  work,  as  if  he  were  waiting  at  a  mouse's  hole. 

At  length  the  letters  were  disposed  of,  excepting  one  which 
he  reserved  for  a  particular  audience.  Having  locked  the 
more  confidential  correspondence  in  a  drawer,  Mr.  Carker 
the  manager  rang  his  bell. 

"  Why  dojw/  answer  it? "  was  his  reception  of  his  brother. 

**  The  messenger  is  out,  and  I  am  the  next,"  was  the  sub- 
missive reply. 

"You  are  the  next?"  muttered  the  manager.  "Yes! 
Creditable  to  me  !     There  !  " 

Pointing  to  the  heaps  of  opened  letters,  he  turned  disdain- 
fully away,  in  his  elbow-chair,  and  broke  the  seal  of  that  one 
which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  r  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  James,"  said  the  brother, 
gathering  them  up;  "  but — " 

"  Oh,  you  have  something  to  say.     I  knew  that.     Well  ?  " 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  not  raise  his  eyes  or  turn 
them  on  his  brother,  but  kept  them  on  his  letter,  though 
without  opening  it. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  repeated,  sharply. 

"  I  am  uneasy  about  Harriet." 

"  Harriet  who  ?  what  Harriet  ?  I  know  nobody  of  that 
name." 

"  She  is  not  well,  and  has  changed  very  much  of  late." 

"  She  changed  very  much  a  great  many  years  ago," 
replied  the  manager  ;  "  and  that  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

"  I  think  if  you  would  hear  me — " 

"  Why  should  I  hear  you.  Brother  John  ? "  returned  the 
manager,  laying  a  sarcastic  emphasis  on  those  two  words, 
and  throwing  up  his  head,  but  not  lifting  his  eyes.  "I  tell 
you,  Harriet  Carker  made  her  choice  many  years  ago  between 
her  two  brothers.  She  may  repent  it,  but  she  must  abide 
by  it." 

"  Don't  mistake  me.     I  do  not  say  she  does  repent  it.     It 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3^*7 

would  be  black  ingratitude  in  me  to  hint  at  such  a  thing," 
returned  the  other.  ''  Though,  beheve  me,  James,  I  am  as 
sorry  for  her  sacrifice  as  you." 

''As  I  ?  "  exclaimed  the  manager.     "  As  I  ?  " 
"  As  sorrv  for  her  choice — for  what  you  call  her  choice — 
as  you  are  angry  at  it,"  said  the  junior. 

"  Angry  ?  "  repeated  the  other,  with  a  wide  show  of  his 
teeth. 

"  Displeased.  Whatever  word  you  like  best.  You  know 
my  meaning.     There  is  no  offense  in  my  intention." 

"  There  is  offense  in  every  thing  you  do,"  replied  his 
brother,  glancing  at  him  with  a  sudden  scowl,  which  in  a 
moment  gave  place  to  a  wider  smile  than  the  last.  "  Carry 
those  papers  away,  if  you  please.     I  am  busy." 

His  politeness  Vas  so  much  more  cutting  than  his  wrath, 
that  the  junior  went  to  the  door.  But  stopping  at  it,  and 
looking  round,  he  said  : 

"  Vv'hen  Harriet  tried  in  vain  to  plead  for  me  with  you, 
on  your  first  just  indignation,  and  my  first  disgrace  ;  when 
she  left  you,  James,  to  follow  my  broken  fortunes,  and 
devote  herself,  in  her  m.istaken  affection,  to  a  ruined  brother, 
because  v\^ithout  her  he  had  no  one,  and  was  lost  ;  she  was 
young  and  pretty.  I  think  if  you  could  see  her  now — if  you 
would  go  and  see  her — she  would  move  your  admiration 
and  compassion." 

The  manager  inclined  his  head,  and  showed  his  teeth,  as 
who  should  say,  in  answer  to  some  careless  small- talk,  "  Dear 
me  !  Is  that  the  case  ?  "  but  said  never  a  word. 

'*  We  thought  in  those  days — you  and  I  both — that  she 
would  marry  young,  and  lead  a  happy  and  light-hearted  life," 
pursued  the  other.  "  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  cheerfully  she 
cast  those  hopes  away  ;  how  cheerfully  she  has  gone 
forward  on  the  path  she  took,  and  never  once  looked  back  ; 
you  never  could  say  again  that  her  name  was  strange  in 
your  ears.     Never  !  " 

Again   the   manager  inclined    his  head,  and   showed  his 
teeth,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Remarkable  indeed  !  You  quite 
surprise  me  !  "  And  again  he  uttered  never  a  word. 
"  May  I  go  on  ?  "  said  John  Carker,  mildly. 
"  On  your  way  ?  "  replied    his   smiling  brother.     "  If  you 
will  have  the  goodness." 

John  Carker,  with  a  sigh,  was  passing  slowly  out  at  the 
door,  when  his  brother's  voice  detained  him  for  a  moment 
on  the  threshold. 


3o8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

* 

"  If  she  has  gone,  and  goes  her  own  way  cheerfully,"  he 
said,  throwing  the  still  unfolded  letter  on  his  desk,  and 
putting  his  hands  firmly  in  his  pockets,  "you  may  tell  her 
that  I  go  as  cheerfully  on  mine.  If  she  has  never  once 
looked  back,  you  may  tell  her  that  I  have,  sometimes,  to 
recall  her  taking  part  with  you,  and  that  my  resolution  is  no 
easier  to  wear  away — "  he  smiled  very  sweetly  here — *'  than 
marble." 

"  I  tell  her  nothing  of  you.  We  never  speak  about  you. 
Once  a  year,  on  your  birthday,  Harriet  says  always,  '  Let  us 
remember  James  by  name,  and  wish  him  happy,'  but  we  say 
no  more." 

''  Tell  it,  then,  if  you  please,"  returned  the  other,  "  to 
yourself.  You  can't  repeat  it  too  often,  as  a  lesson  to  you  to 
avoid  the  subject  in  speaking  to  me.  I  know  no  Harriet 
Carker.  There  is  no  such  person.  Vou  may  have  a  sister  ; 
make  much  of  her.     I  have  none." 

Mr.  Carker  the  Manager  took  up  the  letter  again,  and 
waved  it  with  a  smile  of  mock  courtesy  toward  the  door. 
Unfolding  it  as  his  brother  withdrew,  and  looking  darkly 
after  him  as  he  left  the  room,  he  once  more  turned  round  in 
his  elbow-chair,  and  applied  himself  to  a  diligent  perusal  of 
its  contents. 

It  was  in  the  writing  of  his  great  chief,  Mr.  Dombey,  and 
dated  from  Leamington.  Though  he  was  a  quick  reader  of 
all  other  letters,  Mr.  Carker  read  this  slowly  ;  weighing  the 
words  as  he  went,  and  bringing  every  tooth  in  his  head  to 
bear  upon  them.  When  he  had  read  it  through  once,  he 
turned  it  over  again,  and  picked  out  these  passages  :  "  I  find 
myself  benefited  by  the  change,  and  am  not  yet  inclined  to 
name  any  time  for  my  return."  "  I  wish,  Carker,  you  would 
arrange  to  come  down  once  and  see  me  here,  and  let  me 
know  how  things  are  going  on,  in  person."  "I  omitted  to 
speak  to  you  about  young  Gay.  If  not  gone  per  Son  and 
Heir,  or  if  Son  and  Heir  is  still  lying  in  the  docks,  appoint 
some  other  young  man  and  keep  him  in  the  City  for  the 
present.  I  am  not  decided."  "  Now  that's  unfortunate  !  " 
said  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  expanding  his  mouth,  as  if  it 
were  made  of  india-rubber  :  "  for  he  is  far  away." 

Still  that  passage,  which  was  in  a  postscript,  attracted  his 
attention  and  his  teeth  once  more. 

''  I  think,"  he  said,  "  my  good  friend  Captain  Cuttle  men- 
tioned something  about  being  towed  along  in  the  wake  of 
that  day.     What  a  pity  he's  so  far  away  !  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  309 

He  refolded  the  letter,  and  was  sitting  trifling  with  it, 
standing  it  longwise  and  broadwise  on  his  table,  and  turn- 
ing it  over  and  over  on  all  sides — doing  pretty  much  the 
same  thing,  perhaps,  by  its  contents — when  Mr.  Perch  the 
messenger  knocked  softly  at  the  door,  and  coming  in  on 
tiptoe,  bending  his  body  at  every  step  as  if  it  were  the 
delight  of  his  life  to  bow,  laid  some  papers  on  the  table. 

"  Would  you  please  to  be  engaged,  sir  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Perch,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  deferentially  putting  his  head 
on  one  side,  like  a  man  who  felt  he  had  no  business  to  hold 
it  up  in  such  a  presence,  and  would  keep  it  as  much  out  of 
the  wav  as  possible. 

"  Who  wants  me  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  in  a  soft  voice,  "really 
nobody,  sir,  to  speak  of  at  present.  Mr.  Gills,  the  ship's 
instrument-maker,  sir,  has  looked  in  about  a  little  matter  of 
payment,  he  says  :  but  I  mentioned  to  him,  sir,  that  you  was 
engaged  several  deep — several  deep." 

Mr.  Perch  coughed  once  behind  his  hand,  and  waited  for 
further  orders. 

"  Any  body  else  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I  wouldn't  of  my  own  self 
take  the  liberty  of  mentioning,  sir,  that  there  was  any  body 
else  ;  but  that  same  young  lad  that  was  here  yesterday,  sir, 
and  last  week,  has  been  hanging  about  the  place  ;  and  it 
looks,  sir,"  added  Mr.  Perch,  stopping  to  shut  the  door, 
"  dreadful  unbusiness-Hke  to  see  him  whistling  to  the  sparrows 
down  the  court,  and  making  of  'em  answer  him." 

"  You  said  he  wanted  something  to  do,  didn't  you,  Perch  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  looking  at 
that  officer. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  behind  his  hand 
again,  "  his  expression  certainly  were  that  he  was  in  wants 
of  a  sitiwation,  and  that  he  considered  something  might  be 
done  for  him  about  the  docks,  being  used  to  fishing  with  a 
rod  and  line  :  but — "  Mr.  Perch  shook  his  head  very  dubi- 
ously indeed. 

"  What  does  he  say  when  he  comes  !  "  asked  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  coughing  another  cough 
behind  his  hand,  which  was  always  his  resource  as  an  ex- 
pression of  humiUty  when  nothing  else  occurred  to  him, 
"  his  observation  generally  air  that  he  would  humbly 
wish  to  see  one  of  the  gentlemen,  and  that  he  wants 
to  earn  a  living.     But  you  see,   sir,"  added  Perch,  dropping 


310  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

his  voice  to  a  whisper,  and  turning,  in  the  inviolable  nature 
of  his  confidence,  to  give  the  door  a  thrust  with  his  hand 
and  knee,  as  if  that  would  shut  it  any  more  when  it  was  shut 
already,  "  it's  hardly  to  be  bore,  sir,  that  a  common  lad  like 
that  should  come  a-prowling  here,  and  saying  that  his  mother 
nursed  our  House's  young  gentleman,  and  that  he  hopes 
our  House  will  give  him  a  chance  on  that  account.  I  am 
sure,  sir,"  observed  Mr.  Perch,  "  that  although  Mrs.  Perch 
was  at  that  time  nursing  as  thriving  a  little  girl,  sir,  as  we've 
ever  took  the  liberty  of  adding  to  our  family,  I  wouldn't 
have  made  so  free  as  drop  a  hint  of  her  being  capable  of 
imparting  nourishment,  not  if  it  was  never  so  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  grinned  at  him  like  a  shark,  but  in  an  absent, 
thoughtful  manner. 

"  Whether,"  submitted  Mr.  Perch,  after  a  short  silence, 
and  another  cough,  "  it  mightn't  be  best  for  me  to  tell  him, 
that  if  he  was  seen  here  any  more  he  would  be  given  into 
custody  ;  and  to  keep  to  it  !  With  respect  to  bodily  fear," 
said  Mr.  Perch,  "  I'm  so  timid,  myself,  by  nature,  sir,  and 
my  nerves  is  so  unstrung  by  Mrs.  Perch's  state,  that  I  could 
make  my  affidavit  easy." 

"  Let  me  see  this  fellow,  Perch,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  Bring 
him  in  !  " 

"Yes,  sir.  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Perch, 
hesitating  at  the  door,  "  he's  rough,  sir,  in  appearance." 

"  Never  mind.  If  he's  there,  bring  him  in.  I'll  see  Mr. 
Gills  directly.     Ask  him  to  wait." 

Mr.  Perch  bowed  ;  and  shutting  the  door,  as  precisely 
and  carefully  as  if  he  were  not  coming  back  for  a  week, 
went  on  his  quest  among  the  sparrows  in  the  court.  While 
he  was  gone,  Mr.  Carker  assumed  his  favorite  attitude  before 
the  fire-place,  and  stood  looking  at  the  door  ;  presenting, 
with  his  under  lip  tucked  into  the  smile  that  showed  his  whole 
row  of  upper  teeth,  a  singularly  crouching  appearance. 

The  messenger  was  not  long  in  returning,  followed  by  a 
pair  of  heavy  boots  that  came  bumping  along  the  passage  like 
boxes.  With  the  unceremonious  words  "  Come  along  with 
you  !  " — a  very  unusual  form  of  introduction  from  his  lips — 
Mr.  Perch  then  ushered  into  the  presence  a  strong-built 
lad  of  fifteen,  with  a  round  red  face,  a  round  sleek  head, 
round  black  eyes,  round  limbs,  and  round  body,  who,  to  carry 
out  the  general  rotundity  of  his  appearance,  had  a  round  hat 
in  his  hand,  without  a  particle  of  brim  to  it. 

Obedient  to  a  nod  from  Mr.  Carker,  Perch  had  no  sooner 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  311 

confronted  the  visitor  with  that  gentleman  than  he  withdrew. 
The  moment  they  were  face  to  face  alone,  Mr.  Carker,  with- 
out a  word  of  preparation,  took  him  by  the  throat,  and  shook 
him  until  his  head  seemed  loose  upon  his  shoulders. 

The  boy,  who  in  the  midst  of  his  astonishment  could  not 
help  staring  wildly  at  the  gentleman  with  so  many  white  teeth 
who  was  choking  him,  and  at  the  office  walls,  as  though  deter- 
mined, if  he  were  choked,  that  his  last  look  should  be  at  the 
mysteries  for  his  intrusion  into  which  he  was  paying  such 
a  severe  penalty,  at  last  contrived  to  utter, 

"  Come,  sir  !  You  let  me  alone,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Let  you  alone  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker.  *'  What  !  I  have  got 
you,  have  I  ?  "  There  was  no  doubt  of  that,  and  tightly  too. 
"You  dog,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  through  his  set  jaws,  "I'll 
strangle  you  !  " 

Biler  whimpered,  would  he  though  ?  oh  no  he  wouldn't — 
and  what  was  he  doing  of — and  why  didn't  he  strangle  some- 
body of  his  own  size,  and  not  him  :  but  Biler  was  quelled  by 
the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  reception,  and,  as  his  head 
became  stationary,  and  he  looked  the  gentleman  in  the  face, 
or  rather  in  the  teeth,  and  saw  him  snarling  at  him,  he  so  far 
forgot  his  manhood  as  to  cry. 

"  I  haven't  done  nothing  to  you,  sir,"  said  Biler,  otherwise 
Rob,  otherwise  Grinder,  and  always  Toodle. 

"  You  young  scoundrel  !  "  replied  Mr.  Carker,  slowly 
releasing  him,  and  moving  back  a  step  into  his  favorite  posi- 
tion.    "'  What  do  you  mean  by  daring  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob,  putting  one 
hand  to  his  throat,  and  the  knuckles  of  the  other  to  his  eyes. 
"  I'll  never  come  again,  sir,  I  only  wanted  work." 

"  Work,  young  Cain  that  you  are  I  "  repeated  ]\Ir.  Carker, 
eying  him' narrowly.  "Ain't  you  the  idlest  vagabond  in 
London  ?  " 

The  impeachment,  while  it  much  affected  Mr.  Toodle 
Junior,  attached  to  his  character  so  justly,  that  he  could  not 
say  a  word  in  denial.  He  stood  looking  at  the  gentleman, 
therefore,  with  a  frightened,  self-convicted,  and  remorseful 
air.  As  to  his  looking  at  him,  it  may  be  observed  that  he 
was  fascinated  by  Mr.  Carker,  and  never  took  his  round  eyes 
off  him  for  an  instant. 

"Ain't  you  a  thief?"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hands 
behind  him  in  his  pockets. 

"  No,  sir,"  pleaded  Rob. 

''  You  Are  !  "  said  Mr,  Carker, 


312 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


"  I  ain't  indeed,  sir,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  I  never  did  such 
a  thing  as  thieve,  sir,  if  you'll  believe  me.  I  know  I've  been 
going  wrong,  sir,  ever  since  I  took  to  bird-catching  and 
walking-matching.  I'm  sure  a  cove  might  think,"  said  Mr. 
Toodle  Junior,  with  a  burst  of  penitence,  ''  that  singing 
birds  was  innocent  company,  but  nobody  knows  what  harm  is 
in  them  little  creeturs,  and  what  they  brings  you  down  to." 

They  seemed  to  have  brought  him  down  to  a  velveteen 
jacket  and  trowsers  very  much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  particu- 
larly small  red  waistcoat  like  a  gorget,  an  interval  of  blue 
check,  and  the  hat  before  mentioned. 

"  I  ain't  been  home  twenty  times  since  them  birds  got 
their  will  of  me,  "  said  Rob,  "  and  that's  ten  months.  How 
can  I  go  home  when  every  body's  miserable  to  see  me  ?  I 
wonder,"said  Biler,  blubbering  outright,  and  smearing  his 
eyes  with  his  coat-cuff,  "  that  I  haven't  been  and  drownded 
myself  over  and  over  again." 

All  of  which,  including  his  expression  of  surprise  at  not 
having  achieved  this  last  scarce  performance,  the  boy  said, 
just  as  if  the  teeth  of  Mr.  Carker  drew  it  out  of  him,  and  he 
had  no  power  of  concealing  any  thing  with  that  battery  of 
attraction  in  full  play. 

*' You're  a  nice  young  gentleman  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  shak- 
ing his  head  at  him.  "  There's  hemp-seed  sown  iox you,  my 
fine  fellow  !  " 

**  I'm  sure,  sir,"  returned  the  wretched  Biler,  blubbering 
again,  and  again  having  recourse  to  his  coat-cuff:  "I  shouldn't 
care,  sometimes,  if  it  was  growed  too.  My  misfortunes  all 
began  in  wagging,  sir,  but  what  could  I  do,  exceptin'  wag  ?  " 

''  Excepting  what  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Wag,  sir.     Wagging  from  school." 

"  Do  you  mean  pretending  to  go  there,  and  not  going  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  wagging,  sir,"  returned  the  quondam 
Grinder,  much  affected.  "  I  was  chivied  through  the  streets, 
sir,  when  I  went  there,  and  pounded  when  I  got  there.  So  I 
wagged  and  hid  myself,  and  that  began  it." 

"  And  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him 
by  the  throat  again,  holding  him  out  at  arm's-length,  and 
surveying  him  in  silence  for  some  moments,  "  that  you  want 
a  place,  do  you  ?  " 

"I  should  be  thankful  to  be  tried,  sir,"  returned  Toodle 
Junior,  faintly. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager   pushed  him  backward  into  a 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  313 

corner — the  boy  submitting  quietly,  hardly  venturing  to 
breathe,  and  never  once  removing  his  eyes  from  his  face — 
and  rang  the  bell. 

''Tell  Mr.  Gills  to  come  here." 

Mr.  Perch  was  too  deferential  to  express  surprise  or  recogni- 
tion of  the  figure  in  the  corner,  and  Uncle  Sol  appeared 
immediately. 

"  Mr.  Gills  !  "  said  Carker,  with  a  smile,  "  sit  down.  How 
do  you  do  ?     You  continue  to  enjoy  your  health,  I  hope  ?  " 

*'  Thank  you,  sir,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  taking  out  his 
pocket-book,  and  handing  over  some  notes  as  he  spoke. 
"  Nothing  ails  me  in  body  but  old  age.  Twenty-five,  sir." 

"You  are  as  punctual  and  exact,  Mr.  Gills,"  replied  the 
smiling  manager,  taking  a  paper  from  one  of  his  many 
drawers,  and  making  an  indorsement  on  it,  while  Uncle  Sol 
looked  over  him,  "  as  one  of  your  own  chronometers.  Quite 
right." 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,  I  find  by  the 
list,  sir,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  with  a  slight  addition  to  the  usual 
tremor  in  his  voice. 

"  The  Son  and  Heir  has  not  been  spoken,"  returned  Carker. 
"  There  seems  to  have  been  tempestuous  weather,  Mr.  Gills, 
and  she  has  probably  been  driven  out  of  her  course." 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  !  "  said  Old  Sol. 

"  She  is  safe,  I  trust  in  Heaven  !  "  assented  Mr.  Carker,  in 
that  voiceless  manner  of  his,  which  made  the  observant 
young  Toodle  tremble  again.  ''  Mr. Gills,"  he  added  aloud, 
throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "  you  must  miss  your 
nephew  very  much  ?  " 

Uncle  Sol,  standing  by  him,  shook  his  head  and  heaved  a 
deep  sigh. 

"  Mr.  Gills,"  said  Carker,  with  his  soft  hand  playing  round 
his  mouth,  and  looking  up  into  the  instrument-maker's  face. 
*'  It  would  be  company  to  you  to  have  a  young  fellow  in  your 
shop  just  now,  and  it  would  be  obliging  me  if  you  would  give 
one  house-room  for  the  present.  No,  to  be  sure,"  he  added 
quickly,  in  anticipation  of  what  the  old  man  was  going  to 
say,  "  there's  not  much  business  doing  there.  I  know:  but 
you  can  make  him  clean  the  place  out,  polish  up  the  instru- 
ments ;  drudge,   ^Ir.  Gills.     That's  the  lad  !  " 

Soi  Gills  pulled  down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead 
to  his  eyes,  and  looked  at  Toodle  Junior  standing  upright 
in  the  corner:  his  head  presenting  the  appearance  (which  it 
always  did)  of  having  been  newly  drawn  out  of  a  bucket  of 


314  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cold  water  ;  his  small  waistcoat  rising  and  falling  quickly  in 
the  play  of  his  emotions  ;  and  his  eyes  intently  fixed  on  Mr. 
Carker,  without  the  least  reference  to  his  proposed  master. 

"  Will  you  give  him  house-room,  Mr.  Gills  ? "  said  the 
manager. 

Old  Sol,  without  being  quite  enthusiastic  on  the  subject, 
replied  that  he  was  glad  of  any  opportunity,  however  slight, 
to  oblige  Mr.  Carker,  whose  wish  on  such  a  point  was  a  com- 
mand: and  that  the  wooden  midshipman  would  consider 
himself  happy  to  receive  in  his  berth  any  visitor  of  Mr. 
Carker's  selecting. 

Mr.  Carker  bared  himself  to  the  tops  and  bottoms  of  his 
gums  :  making  the  watchful  Toodle  Junior  tremble  more  and 
more:  and  acknowledged  the  instrument-maker's  politeness 
in  his  most  affable  manner. 

"  I'll  dispose  of  him  so,  then,  Mr.  Gills,"  he  answered, 
rising,  and  shaking  the  old  man  by  the  hand,  "  until  I  make 
up  my  mind  what  to  do  with  him,  and  what  he  deserves. 
As  I  consider  myself  responsible  for  him,  Mr.  Gills,"  here 
he  smiled  a  wide  smile  at  Rob,  who  shook  before  it,  "  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you'll  look  sharply  after  him,  and  report  his 
behavior  to  me.  I'll  ask  a  question  or  two  of  his  parents  as 
J  ride  home  this  afternoon — respectable  people — to  confirm 
some  particulars  in  his  own  account  of  himself  ;  and  that 
done,  Mr.  Gills,  I'll  send  him  round  to  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing.    Good-by  !  " 

His  smile  at  parting  was  so  full  of  teeth,  that  it  confused 
old  Sol,  and  made  him  vaguely  uncomfortable.  He  went 
home,  thinking  of  raging  seas,  foundering  ships,  drowning 
men,  an  ancient  bottle  of  Madeira  never  brought  to  light, 
and  other  dismal  matter. 

"Now,  boy  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  putting  his  hand  on  young 
Toodle's  shoulder,  and  bringing  him  out  into  the  middle  of 
the  room.     "  You  have  heard  me  ?  " 

Rob  said,  "Yes,  sir." 

"  Perhaps  you  understand,"  pursued  his  patron,  "  that  if 
you  ever  deceive  or  play  tricks  with  me,  you  had  better  have 
drowned  yourself,  indeed,  once  for  all,  before  you  came 
here  ?  " 

There  was  nothing  in  any  branch  of  mental  acquisition 
that  Rob  seemed  to  understand  better   than  that. 

"  If  you  have  lied  to  me,'  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  in  any  thing, 
never  come  in  my  way  again.  If  not,  you  may  let  me  find 
you  waiting  for  me  somewhere  near  your  mother's  house 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  3iS 

this   afternoon.     I  shall  leave   this  at  five  o'clock  and    ride 
there  on  horse-back.     Now  give  me  the  address." 

Rob  repeated  it  slowly,  as  Mr.  Carker  wrote  it  down. 
Rob  even  spelled  it  over  a  second  time,  letter  by  letter,  as 
if  he  thought  that  the  omission  of  a  dot  or  scratch  would 
lead  to  his  destruction.  Mr.  Carker  then  handed  him  out 
of  the  room  ;  and  Rob,  keeping  his  round  eyes  fixed  upon 
his  patron  to  the  last,  vanished  for  the  time  being. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  did  a  great  deal  of  business  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  and  bestowed  his  teeth  upon  a  great 
manv  people.  In  the  office,  in  the  court,  in  the  street,  and 
on  Change,  they  glistened  and  bristled  to  a  terrible  extent. 
Five  o'clock  arriving,  and  with  it  Mr.  Carker's  bay^  horse, 
they  got  on  horseback,  and  went  gleaming  up  Cheapside. 

As  no  one  can  easily  ride  fast,  even  if  inclined  to  do  so, 
through  the  press  and  throng  of  the  City  at  that  hour,  and 
as  Mr.  Carker  was  not  inclined,  he  went  leisurely  along, 
picking  his  way  among  the  carts  and  carriages,  avoiding 
whenever  he  could  the  wetter  and  more  dirty  places  in  the 
over-watered  road,  and  taking  infinite  pains  to  keep  himself 
and  his  steed  clean.  Glancing  at  the  passers-by  while  he 
was  thus  ambling  on  his  way,  he  suddenly  encountered  the 
round  eyes  of  the  sleek-headed  Rob  intently  fixed  upon  his 
face  as  if  they  had  never  been  taken  oft',  while  the  boy  him- 
self, with  a  pocket-handkerchief  twisted  up  like  a  speckled 
eel  and  girded  round  his  waist,  made  a  very  conspicuous 
demonstration  of  being  prepared  to  attend  upon  him,  at 
whatever  pace  he  might  think  proper  to  go. 

This  attention,  however  flattering,  being  one  of  an  unusual 
kind,  and  attracting  some  notice  from  the  other  passengers, 
Mr.  Carker  took  advantage  of  a  clearer  thoroughfare  and_a 
cleaner  road,  and  broke  into  a  trot.  Rob  immediately  did 
the  same.  Mr.  Carker  presently  tried  a  canter  ;  Rob  was 
still  in  attendance.  Then  a  short  gallop  ;  it  was  all  one  to 
the  boy.  Whenever  Mr.  Carker  turned  his  eyes  to  that  side 
of  the 'road,  he  still  saw  Toodle  Junior  holding  his  course, 
apparently  without  distress,  and  working  himself  along  by 
the  elbows  after  the  most  approved  manner  of  professional 
gentlemen  who  get  over  the  ground  for  wagers. 

Ridiculous  as  this  attendance  was,  it  was  a  sign  of  an 
influence  established  over  the  boy,  and  therefore  Mr.  Carker, 
affecting  not  to  notice  it,  rode  away  into  the  neighborhood 
of  Mr.  Toodle' 5  house.  On  his  slackening  his  pace  here, 
Rob  appeared  before  him   to  point  out  the  turnings  ;  and 


3i6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

when  he  called  to  a  man  at  a  neighboring  gate-way  to  hold 
his  horse,  pending  his  visit  to  the  buildings  that  had  suc- 
ceeded Staggs's  Gardens,  Rob  dutifully  held  the  stirrup 
while  the  manager  dismounted. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  him  by  the  shoulder, 
"  come  along  !  " 

The  prodigal  son  was  evidently  nervous  of  visiting  the 
parental  abode  ;  but  Mr.  Carker  pushing  him  on  before,  he 
had  nothing  for  it  but  to  open  the  right  door,  and  suffer 
himself  to  be  walked  into  the  midst  of  his  brothers  and 
sisters,  mustered  in  overwhelming  force  round  the  family 
tea-table.  At  sight  of  the  prodigal  in  the  grasp  of  a  stranger, 
these  tender  relations  united  in  a  general  howl,  which  smote 
upon  the  prodigal's  breast  so  sharply  when  he  saw  his 
mother  stand  up  among  them,  pale  and  trembling  with  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  that  he  lent  his  own  voice  to  the  chorus. 

Nothing  doubting  now  that  the  stranger,  if  not  Mr,  Ketch 
in  person,  was  one  of  that  company,  the  whole  of  the  young 
family  wailed  the  louder,  while  its  more  infantine  members, 
unable  to  control  the  transports  of  emotion  appertaining  to 
their  time  of  life,  threw  themselves  on  their  backs  like  young 
birds  when  terrified  by  a  hawk,  and  kicked  violently.  At 
length  poor  Polly,  making  herself  audible,  said,  with  quiver- 
ing lips,  "  Oh  Rob,  my  poor  boy,  what  have  you  done  at 
last?" 

'^  Nothing,  mother,"  cried  Rob  in  a  piteous  voice  ;  "  ask 
the  gentleman  !  " 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  want  to  do  him 
good." 

At  this  announcement,  Polly,  who  had  not  cried  yet, 
began  to  do  so.  The  elder  Toodles,  who  appeared  to  have 
been  meditating  a  rescue,  unclenched  their  fists.  The 
younger  Toodles  clustered  round  their  mother's  gown,  and 
peeped  from  under  their  own  chubb  yarm  sat  their  desperado 
brother  and  his  unknown  friend.  Every  body  blessed  the 
gentleman  with  the  beautiful  teeth,  who  wanted  to  do  good, 

"  This  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Carker  to  Polly,  giving  him  a 
gentle  shake,  "  is  your  son,  eh,  ma'am  ?" 

'*  Yes,  sir,"  sobbed  Polly,  with  a  courtesy  ;  "yes,  sir." 

"  A  bad  son,  I  am  afraid  ?  "  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Never  a  bad  son  to  me,  sir,"  returned  Polly. 

"  To  whom,  then  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Carker. 

"  He  has  been  a  little  wild,  sir,"  replied  Polly,  checking 
the  baby,  who  was  making  convulsive  efforts  with  his  arms 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  317 

and  legs  to  launch  himself  on  Biler,  through  the  ambient  air, 
''and  has  gone  with  wrong  companions  ;  but  I  hope  he  has 
seen  the  misery  of  that,  sir,  and  will  do  well  again." 

Mr.  Carker  looked  at  Polly,  and  the  clean  room,  and  the 
clean  children,  and  the  simple  Toodle  face,  combined  of 
father  and  mother,  that  was  reflected  and  repeated  every- 
where about  him — and  seemed  to  have  achieved  the  real 
purpose  of  his  visil. 

"  Your  husband,  I  take  it,  is  not  at  home?  "  he  said. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Polly.     "  He's  down  the  line  at  present." 

The  prodigal  Rob  seemed  very  much  relieved  to  hear  it  : 
though  still  in  the  absorption  of  all  his  faculties  in  his  patron, 
he  hardly  took  his  eyes  from  Mr.  Carker' s  face,  unless  for  a 
moment  at  a  time,  to  steal  a  sorrowful  glance  at  his  mother. 

"  Then,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I'll  tell  you  how  I  have  stum- 
bled on  this  boy  of  yours,  and  who  I  am,  and  what  I  am 
going  to  do  for  him." 

This  Mr.  Carker  did,  in  his  own  way  ;  saying  that  he  at 
first  intended  to  have  accumulated  nameless  terrors  on  his 
presumptuous  head  for  coming  to  the  whereabouts  of  Dom- 
bey  and  Son.  That  he  had  relented,  in  consideration  of  his 
youth,  his  professed  contrition,  and  his  friends.  That  he  was 
afraid  he  took  a  rash  step  in  doing  any  thing  for  the  boy,  and 
one  that  might  expose  him  to  the  censure  of  the  prudent ; 
but  that  he  did  it  of  himself  and  for  himself,  and  risked  the 
consequences  single-handed  ;.  and  that  his  mother's  past  con- 
nection with  Mr.  Uombey's  family  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  that 
he,  Mr.  Carker,  was  the  be-all,  and  the  end-all  of  this  busi- 
ness. Taking  great  credit  to  himself  for  his  goodness,  and 
receiving  no  less  from  all  the  family  then  present,  Mr.  Car- 
ker signified,  indirectly  but  still  pretty  plainly,  that  Rob's 
implicit  fidelity,  attachment,  and  devotion  were  for  evermore 
his  due,  and  the  least  homage  he  could  receive.  And  with 
this  great  truth  Rob  himself  was  so  impressed,  that,  standing 
gazing  on  his  patron  with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  he 
nodded  his  shiny  head  until  it  seemed  almost  as  loose  as  it 
had  done  under  the  same  patron's  hands  that  morning. 

Polly,  who  had  passed  Heaven  knows  how  many  sleepless 
nights  on  account  of  this  her  dissipated  first-born,  and  had 
not  seen  him  for  weeks  and  weeks,  could  have  almost 
kneeled  to  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  as  to  a  Good  Spirit — in 
spite  of  his  teeth.  But  Mr.  Carker  rising  to  depart,  she  only 
thanked  him  with  her  mother's  prayers  and  blessings  ;  thanks 


3iS  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

so  rich  when  paid  out  of  the  Heart's  mint,  especially  for  any 
service  Mr.  Carker  had  rendered,  that  he  might  have  given 
back  a  large  amount  of  change,  and  yet  been  overpaid. 

As  that  gentleman  made  his  way  among  the  crowding  chil- 
dren to  the  door,  Rob  retreated  on  his  mother,  and  took  her 
and  the  baby  in  the  same  repentant  hug. 

"  I'll  try  hard,  dear  mother,  now.  Upon  my  soul  I  will !  " 
said  Rob. 

"  Oh  do,  my  dear  boy  !  I  am  sure  you  will,  for  our  sakes 
and  your  own!"  cried  Polly,  kissing  him.  "But  you're 
coming  back  to  speak  to  me,  when  you  have  seen  the  gentle- 
man away  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  mother."  Rob  hesitated,  and  looked 
down.     "  Father — when's  he  coming  home  ?  " 

"Not  till  two  o'clock  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I'll  come  back,  mother  dear!"  cried  Rob.  And  pass- 
ing through  the  shrill  cry  of  his  brothers  and  sisters  in  recep- 
tion of  this  promise,  he  followed  Mr.  Carker  out. 

"  What  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  who  had  heard  this.  ''  You 
have  a  bad  father,  have  you?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  "  returned  Rob,  amazed.  "  There  ain't  a  bet- 
ter nor  a  kinder  father  going  than  mine  is." 

"  Why  don't  you  want  to  see  him,  then  ?  "  asked  his  patron. 

"  There's  such  a  difference  between  a  father  and  a  mother, 
sir,"  said  Rob,  after  faltering  for  a  moment.  "  He  couldn't 
hardly  believe  yet  that  I  was  going  to  do  better — though  I 
know  he'd  try  to  ;  but  a  mother — she  always  believes  what's 
good,  sir  ;  at  least  I  know  my  mother  does,  God  bless  her  !  " 

Mr.  Carker's  mouth  expanded,  but  he  said  no  more  until 
he  was  mounted  on  his  horse,  and  had  dismissed  the  man 
who  held  it,  when,  looking  down  from  the  saddle  steadily 
into  the  attentive  and  watchful  face  of  the  boy,  he  said  : 

"  You'll  come  to  me  to-morrow  morning,  and  you  shall  be 
shown  where  that  old  gentleman  lives  ;  that  old  gentleman 
who  was  with  me  this  morning  ;  where  you  are  going,  as  you 
heard  me  say." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  returned  Rob. 

"  I  have  a  great  interest  in  that  old  gentleman,  and  in 
serving  him  you  serve  me,  boy,  do  you  understand  ?  Well," 
he  added,  interrupting  him,  for  he  saw  his  round  face  bright- 
en when  he  was  told  that :  "  I  see  you  do.  I  want  to  know  all 
about  that  old  gentleman,  and  how  he  goes  on  from  day  to 
day — for  I  am  anxious  to  be  of  service  to  him — and  espe- 
dallv  who  comes  there  to  see  him.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  319 

Rob  nodded  his  steadfast  face,  and  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  again. 

'*I  should  like  to  know  that  he  has  triends  who  are  atten- 
tive to  him,  and  that  they  don't  desert  him — for  he  lives  very 
much  alone  now,  poor  fellow  ;  but  that  they  are  fond  of 
him,  and  of  his  nephew  who  has  gone  abroad.  There  is  a 
very  young  lady  who  may  perhaps  come  to  see  him.  I  want 
particularly  to  know  all  about  ho-y 

"  I'll  take  care,  sir,"  said  the  boy. 

''And  take  care,"  returned  his  patron,  bending  forward  to 
advance  his  grinning  face  closer  to  the  boy's,  and  pat  him  on 
the  shoulder  with  the  handle  of  his  whip:  "  take  care  you  talk 
about  affairs  of  mine  to  nobody  but  me." 

'' To  nobody  in  the  world,  sir,"  replied  Rob,  shaking  his 
head. 

"Neither  there,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  pointing  to  the  place 
they  had  just  left,  "  nor  anywhere  else.  I'll  try  how  true  and 
grateful  you  can  be.  I'll  prove  you  !  "  Making  this,  by  his 
display  of  teeth  and  by  the  action  of  his  head,  as  much  a 
threat  as  a  promise,  he  turned  from  Rob's  eyes,  which  were 
nailed  upon  him  as  if  he  had  won  the  boy  by  a  charm,  body 
and  soul,  and  rode  away.  But  again  becoming  conscious, 
after  trotting  a  short  distance,  that  his  devoted  henchman, 
girded  as  before,  was  yielding  him  the  same  attendance,  to  the 
great  amusement  of  sundry  spectators,  he  reined  up,  and  or- 
dered him  off.  To  insure  his  obedience,  he  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  watched  him  as  he  retired.  It  was  curious  to  see 
that  even  then  Rob  could  not  keep  his  eyes  wholly  averted 
from  his  patron's  face,  but  constantly  turning  and  turning 
again  to  look  after  him,  involved  himself  in  a  tempest  of 
buffetings  and  jostlings  from  the  other  passengers  in  the 
street  :  of  which,  in  the  pursuit  of  the  one  paramount  idea, 
he  was  perfectly  heedless. 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager  rode  on  at  a  foot-pace,  with  the 
easy  air  of  one  who  had  performed  all  the  business  of  the  day 
in  a  satisfactory  manner,  and  got  it  comfortably  off  his  mind. 
Complacent  and  affable  as  man  could  be,  Mr.  Carker  picked 
his  way  along  the  streets  and  hummed  a  soft  tune  as  he 
went.     He  seemed  to  purr,  he  was  so  glad. 

And  in  some  sort,  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  fancy,  basked  upon 
a  hearth  too.  Coiled  up  snugly  at  certain  feet,  he  was  ready 
for  a  spring,  or  for  a  tear,  or  for  a  scratch,  or  for  a  velvet 
touch,  as  the  humor  took  him  and  occasion  served.  Was 
there  any  bird  in  a  cage,  that  came  in  for  a  share  of  his 
regards  ? 


320  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

*'  A  very  young  lady  !  "  thought  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
through  his  song.  "Ay  !  when  I  saw  her  last,  she  was  a  lit- 
tle child.  With  dark  eyes  and  hair,  I  recollect,  and  a  good 
face  ;  a  very  good  face  !     I  dare  say  she's  pretty." 

More  affable  and  pleasant  yet,  and  humming  his  song 
until  his  many  teeth  vibrated  to  it,  Mr.  Carker  picked  his 
way  along,  and  turned  at  last  into  the  shady  street  v/here 
Mr.  Dombey's  house  stood.  He  had  been  so  busy,  winding 
webs  round  good  faces,  and  obscuring  them  with  meshes, 
that  he  hardly  thought  of  being  at  this  point  of  his  ride,  un- 
til, glancing  down  the  cold  perspective  of  tall  houses,  he 
reined  in  his  horse  quickly  within  a  few  yards  of  the  door. 
But  to  explain  why  Mr.  Carker  reined  in  his  horse  quickly, 
and  what  he  looked  at  in  no  small  surprise,  a  few  digres- 
sive words  are  necessary. 

Mr.  TooCs  emancipated  from  the  Blimber  thralldom,  and 
coming  into  the  possession  of  a  certain  portion  of  his  worldly 
wealth,  "which,"  as  he  had  been  wont,  during  his  last  half- 
year's  probation  to  communicate  to  Mr.  Feeder  every  evening 
as  a  new  discovery,  "  the  executors  couldn't  keep  him  out  of," 
had  applied  himself,  with  great  diligence,  to  the  science  of 
life.  Fired  with  a  noble  emulation  to  pursue  a  brilliant  and 
distinguished  career,  Mr.  Toots  had  furnished  a  choice  set 
of  apartments ;  had  established  among  them  a  sporting 
bower,  embellished  with  the  portraits  of  winning  horses,  in 
which  he  took  no  particle  of  interest  ;  and  a  divan,  which 
made  him  poorly.  In  this  delicious  abode,  Mr.  Toots 
devoted  himself  to  the  cultivation  of  those  gentle  arts  which 
refine  and  humanize  existence,  his  chief  instructor  in  which 
was  an  interesting  character  called  the  Game  Chicken,  who 
was  always  to  be  heard  of  at  the  bar  of  the  Black  Badger, 
wore  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  in  the  warmest  weather,  and 
knocked  Mr.  Toots  a-bout  the  head  three  times  a  week,  for 
the  small  consideration  of  ten  and  six  per  visit. 

The  Game  Chicken,  who  was  quite  the  Apollo  of  Mr. 
Toot's  Pantheon,  had  introduced  to  him  a  marker  who 
taught  billiards,  a  Life  Guard  who  taught  fencing,  a  job- 
master who  taught  riding,  a  Cornish  gentleman  who  was  up 
to  any  thing  in  the  athletic  line,  and  two  or  three  othe^ 
friends  connected  no  less  intimately  with  the  fine  arts. 
Under  whose  auspices  Mr.  Toots  could  hardly  fail  to 
improve  apace,  and  under  whose  tuition  he  went  to  work. 

But  however  it  came  about,  it  came  to  pass,  even  while 
these  gentlemen  had  the  gloss  of  novelty  upon  them,  that 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  321 

Mr.  Toots  felt,  he  didn't  know  how,  unsettled  and  uneasy. 
There  were  husks  in  his  corn,  that  even  Game  Chickens 
couldn't  peck  up  ;  gloomy  giants  in  his  leisure,  that  even 
Game  Chickens  couldn't  knock  down.  Nothing  seemed  to 
do  Mr.  Toots  so  much  good  as  incessantly  leaving  cards  at  Mr. 
Dombey's  door.  No  tax-gatherer  in  the  British  dominions 
— that  'wide-spread  territory  on  which  the  sun  never  sets, 
and  where  the  tax-gatherer  never  goes  to  bed — was  more 
regular  and  persevering  in  his  calls  than  Mr.  Toots. 

Mr.  Toots  never  went  up-stairs  ;  and  always  performed 
the  same  ceremonies,  richly  dressed  for  the  purpose,  at  the 
hall  door. 

"  Oh  !  Good-morning  ! "  would  be  Mr.  Toots's  first 
remark  to  the  servant.  "  For  Mr.  Dombey,"  would  be  Mr. 
Toots's  next  remark,  as  he  handed  in  a  card.  "  For  Miss 
Dombey,"  would  be  his  next,  as  he  handed  in  another. 

Mr.  Toots  would  then  turn  round  as  if  to  go  away  ;  but 
the  m.an  knew  him  by  this  time,  and  knew  he  wouldn't. 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  as  if  a 
thought  suddenly  descended  on  him.  "  Is  the  young  woman 
at  home  ? " 

The  man  would  rather  think  she  was,  but  wouldn't  quite 
know.  Then  he  would  ring  a  bell  that  rang  up- stairs,  and 
would  look  up  the  staircase,  and  would  say,  yes,  she  was  at 
at  home,  and  was  coming  down.  Then  Miss  Nipper  would 
appear,  and  the  man  would  retire. 

**Oh!  How  de  do?"  Mr.  Toots  would  say,  with  a 
chuckle  and  a  blush. 

Susan  would  thank  him,  and  say  she  was  very  well. 

''How's  Diogenes  going  on?"  would  be  Mr.  Toots's 
second  interrogation. 

Verp  well  indeed.  Miss  Florence  was  fonder  and  fonder 
of  him  every  day.  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  hail  this  with  a 
burst  of  chuckles,  like  the  opening  of  a  bottle  of  some  effer- 
vescent beverage. 

"Miss  Florence  is  quite  well,  sir,"  Susan  would  add. 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thankee,"  was  the  invariable 
reply  of  Mr.  Toots  ;  and  when  he  had  said  so,  he  always  went 
away  very  fast. 

Now  it  is  certain  that  Mr.  Toots  had  a  filmy  some- 
thing in  his  mind,  which  led  him  to  conclude  that  if  he  could 
aspire  successfully,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  to  the  hand  of 
Florence,  he  would  be  fortunate  and  blessed.  It  is  certain 
that  Mr.   Toots,  by  some  remote  and  roundabout  road,  had 


322  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

got  to  that  point,  and  that  there  he  made  a  stand.  His 
heart  was  wounded  ;  he  was  touched  ;  he  was  in  love.  He 
had  made  a  desperate  attempt,  one  night,  and  had  sat  up  all 
night  for  the  purpose,  to  write  an  acrostic  on  Florence, 
which  affected  him  to  tears  in  the  conception.  But  he 
never  proceeded  in  the  execution  further  than  the  words 
*'  For  when  I  gaze  " — the  flow  of  imagination  in  which  he 
had  previously  written  down  the  the  initial  letters  of  the 
other  seven  lines,  deserting  him  at  that  point. 

Beyond  devising  that  very  artful  and  politic  measure  of 
leaving  a  card  for  Mr.  Dombey  daily,  the  brain  of  Mr. 
Toots  had  not  worked  much  in  reference  to  the  subject  that 
held  his  feelings  prisoner.  But  deep  consideration  at  length 
assured  Mr.  Toots  that  an  important  step  to  gain  was  the 
conciliation  of  Miss  Susan  Nipper,  preparatory  to  giving  her 
some  inkling  of  his  state  of  mind. 

A  little  light  and  playful  gallantry  toward  this  lady  seemed 
the  means  to  employ  in  that  early  chapter  of  the  history  for 
winning  her  to  his  interests.  Not  being  able  quite  to  make 
up  his  mind  about  it,  he  consulted  the  Chicken — without 
taking  that  gentleman  into  his  confidence;  merely  informing 
him  that  a  friend  in  Yorkshire  had  written  to  him  (Mr. 
Toots)  for  his  opinion  on  such  a  question.  The  Chicken 
replying  that  his  opinion  always  was,  "  Go  in  and  win,"  and 
further,  "  When  your  man's  before  you  and  your  work  cut 
out,  go  in  and  do  it,"  Mr.  Toots  considered  this  a  figurative 
way  of  supporting  his  owm  view  of  the  case,  and  heroically 
resolved  to  kiss  Miss  Nipper  next  day. 

Upon  the  next  day,  therefore,  Mr.  Toots,  putting  into 
requisition  some  of  the  greatest  marvels  that  Burgess  and  Co. 
had  ever  turned  out,  went  off  to  Mr.  Dombey's  upon  this 
design.  But  his  heart  failed  him  so  much  as  he  approached 
the  scene  of  action,  that,  although  he  arrived  on  the  ground 
at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  it  was  six  before  he  knocked 
at  the  door. 

Every  thing  happened  as  usual,  down  to  the  point  where 
Susan  said  her  young  mistress  was  well,  and  Mr.  Toots  said 
it  was  of  no  consequence.  To  her  amazement,  Mr.  Toots, 
instead  of  going  off,  like  a  rocket,  after  that  observation, 
lingered  and  chuckled. 

'^  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  walk  up-stairs,  sir  !  "  said  Susan. 

"  Well,  I  think  I  will  come  in  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

But  instead  of  walking  up-stairs,  the  bold  Toots 
made   an   awkward   plunge  at   Susan  when   the  door   wa& 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  323 

shut,  and  embracing  that   fair  creature,  kissed  her  on   the 
cheek. 

''  Go  along  with  you  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  or  I'll  tear  your 
eyes  out  !  " 

"  Just  another  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Go  along  with  you  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  giving  him  a 
push.  "  Innocents  like  you,  too  !  Who'll  begin  next  ?  Go 
along,  sir  !  " 

Susan  was  not  in  any  serious  strait,  for  she  could  hardly 
speak  for  laughing  ;  but  Diogenes,  on  the  staircase,  hearing 
a  rustling  against  the  wall,  and  a  shuffling  of  feet,  and  seeing 
through  the  banisters  that  there  was  some  contention  going 
on,  and  foreign  invasion  in  the  house,  formed  a  different 
opinion,  dashed  down  to  the  rescue,  and  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  had  Mr.  Toots  by  the  leg. 

Susan  screamed,  laughed,  opened  the  street  door,  and  ran 
down-stairs  ;  the  bold  Toots  tumbled,  staggering,  out  into 
the  street,  with  Diogenes  holding  on  to  one  leg  of  his  panta- 
loons, as  if  Burgess  and  Co.  were  his  cooks,  and  had  pro- 
vided that  dainty  morsel  for  his  holiday  entertainment  ; 
Diogenes  shaken  off,  rolled  over  and  over  in  the  dust,  got  up 
again,  whirled  round  the  giddy  Toots  and  snapped  at  him  ; 
and  all  this  turmoil,  Mr.  Carker,  reining  up  his  horse  and 
sitting  a  little  at  a  distance,  saw  to  his  amazement,  issue  from 
the  stately  house  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Carker  remained  watching  the  discomfited  Toots, 
when  Diogenes  was  called  in  and  the  dooL  shut  ;  and  while 
that  gentleman,  taking  refuge  in  a  door-way  near  at  hand, 
bound  up  the  torn  leg  of  his  pantaloons  v.dth  a  costly  silk 
handkerchief  that  had  formed  part  of  his  expensive  outfit  for 
the  adventure. 

''  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  riding  up,  with 
his  most  propitiatory  smile.     "  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  raising  his  flushed 
face,  "  it's  of  no  consequence."  Mr.  Toots  would  have  sig- 
nified, if  he  could,  that  he  liked  it  very  much. 

"  If  the  dog's  teeth  have  entered  the  leg,  sir—"  began 
Carker,  with  a  display  of  his  own. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  all  quite  right. 
It's  very  comfortable,  thank  you." 

"  I  have  the  pleasure  of  knowing  Mr.  Dombey,"  observed 
Carker. 

"  Have  you  though  ?  "  rejoined  the  blushing  Toots. 

"  And  you  will   allow  me,  perhaps,   to   apologize,   in    his 


324  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

absence,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  off  his  hat,  "for  such  a  mis- 
adventure,and  to  wonder  how  it  can  possibly  have  happened." 

Mr.  'Toots  is  so  much  gratified  by  this  pohteness  and  the 
lucky  chance  of  making  friends  with  a  friend  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  that  he  pulls  out  his  card-case,  which  he  never  loses  an 
opportunity  of  using,  and  hands  his  name  and  address  to  Mr. 
Carker  ;  who  responds  to  that  courtesy  by  giving  him  his 
own,  and  with  that  they  part. 

As  Mr  Carker  picks  his  way  so  softly  past  the  house, 
glancing  up  at  the  windows,  and  trying  to  make  out  the  pen- 
sive face  behind  the  curtain  looking  at  the  children  opposite, 
the  rough  head  of  Diogenes  came  clambering  up  close  by  it, 
and  the  dog,  regardless  of  all  soothing,  barks  and  grov/ls, 
and  makes  at  him  from  that  height,  as  if  he  would  spring 
down  and  tear  him  limb  from  limb. 

Well  spoken,  Di,  so  near  your  mistress  !  Another,  and 
another  with  your  head  up,  your  eyes  flashing,  and  your 
vexed  mouth  worrying  itself,  for  want  of  him.  Another,  as 
he  picks  his  way  along  !  You  have  a  good  scent,  Di— cats, 
boy,  cats 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FLORENCE  SOLITARY,    AND  THE  MIDSHIPMAN  MYSTERIOUS. 

Florence  lived  alone  in  the  great  dreary  house,  and  day 
succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone  ;  and  the  _  blank 
walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  as  if  they 
had  a  Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into 
stone. 

No  magic  dwelling-place  in  magic  story,  shut  up  in  the 
heart  of  a  thick  wood,  was  ever  more  solitary  and  deserted  to 
the  fancy  than  was  her  father's  mansion  in  its  gran  reality, 
as  it  stood  lowering  on  the  street  ;  always  by  night,  when 
lights  were  shining  from  neighboring  windows,  a  blot  upon 
its  scanty  brightness  ;  always  by  day,  a  frown  upon  its  never- 
smiling  face. 

There  were  not  two  dragon  sentries  keeping  ward  before 
the  gate  of  this  abode,  as  in  magic  legend  are  usually  found 
on  duty  over  the  wronged  innocence  imprisoned  ;  but  besides 
a  glowering  visage,  with  its  thin  lips  parted  wickedly,  that 
surveyed  all  comers  from  above  the  archway  of  the  door, 
there  was  a  monstrous    fantasy    of  rusty   iron,  curling  and 


t)OMBEY   AND   SON.  32^ 

twisting  like  a  petrifaction  of  an  arbor  over  the  threshold, 
budding  in  spikes  and  corkscrew  points,  and  bearing,  one  on 
either  side,  two  ominous  extinguishers,  that  seemed  to  say 
"  Who  enter  here,  leave  light  behind  !  "  There  were  no 
talismanic  characters  engraven  on  the  portal,  but  the  house 
was  now  so  neglected  in  appearance,  that  boys  chalked  the 
railings  and  the  pavement — particularly  round  the  corner 
where  the  side  wall  was — and  drew  ghosts  on  the  stable  door; 
and  being  sometimes  driven  off  by  Mr.  Towlinson,  made  por- 
traits of  him,  in  return,  with  his  ears  growing  out  horizon- 
tally from  under  his  hat.  Noise  ceased  to  be,  within  the 
shadow  of  the  roof.  The  brass  band  that  came  into  the 
street  once  a  week,  in  the  morning,  never  brayed  a  note  in 
at  those  windows  ;  but  all  such  company,  down  to  a  poor 
little  piping  organ  of  weak  intellect,  with  an  imbecile  party 
of  automaton  dancers,  waltzing  in  and  out  at  folding-doors, 
fell  off  from  it  with  one  accord,  and  shunned  it  as  a  hopeless 
place. 

The  spell  upon  it  was  more  wasting  than  the  spell  that  used 
to  set  enchanted  houses  sleeping  once  upon  a  time,  but  left 
their  waking  freshness  unimpaired. 

The  passive  desolation  of  disuse  was  everywhere  silently 
manifest  about  it.  Within  doors,  curtains,  drooping  heavily, 
lost  their  old  folds  and  shapes,  and  hung  like  cumbrous  palls. 
Hecatombs  of  furniture,  still  piled  and  covered  up,  shrunk 
like  imprisoned  and  forgotten  men,  and  changed  insensibly. 
Mirrors  were  dim  as  with  the  breath  of  years.  Patterns  of 
carpets  faded  and  became  perplexed  and  faint,  like  the 
memory  of  those  years'  trifling  incidents.  Boards,  starting  at 
unwonted  footsteps,  creaked  and  shook.  Keys  rusted  in  the 
locks  of  doors.  Damp  started  on  the  walls,  and  as  the  stains 
came  out,  the  pictures  seemed  to  go  in  and  secrete  themselves. 
Mildew  and  mold  began  to  lurk  in  closets.  Fungus  trees 
grew  in  corners  of  the  cellars.  Dust  accumulated,  nobody 
knew  whence  nor  how  ;  spiders,  moths,  and  grubs  were 
heard  of  every  day.  An  exploratory  black-beetle  now  and 
then  was  found  immovable  upon  the  stairs,  or  in  an  upper 
room,  as  wondering  how  he  got  there.  Rats  began  to  squeak 
and  scuffle  in  the  night-time,  through  dark  galleries  they 
mined  behind  the  paneling. 

The  dreary  magnificence  of  the  state-rooms,  seen  imper- 
fectly by  the  doubtful  light  admitted  through  closed  shutters 
would  have  answered  well  enough  for  an  enchanted  abode. 
Such  as  fhe  tarnished  paws  of  gilded  lions,  stealthily  put  out 


326  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

from  beneath  their  wrappers;  the  marble  lineaments  of  busts 
on  pedestals,  fearfully  revealing  themselves  through  veils  ; 
the  clocks  that  never  told  the  time,  or,  if  wound  up  by  any 
chance,  told  it  wrong,  and  struck  unearthly  numbers,  which 
are  not  upon  the  dial  ;  the  accidental  tinkling  among  the 
pendent  lusters,  more  startling  than  alarm  bells  ;  the  softened 
sounds  and  laggard  air  that  made  their  way  among  these 
objects,  and  a  phantom  crowd  of  others,  shrouded  and 
hooded,  and  made  spectral  of  shape.  But,  besides,  there 
was  the  great  staircase,  where  the  lord  of  the  place  so  rarely 
set  his  foot,  and  by  which  his  little  child  had  gone  up  to 
Heaven,  There  were  other  staircases  and  passages  where  no 
one  went  for  weeks  together;  there  were  two  closed  rooms 
associated  with  dead  members  of  the  family,  and  with 
whispered  recollections  of  them ;  and  to  all  the  house  but 
Florence,  there  was  a  gentle  figure  moving  through  the  soli- 
tude and  gloom,  that  gave  to  every  lifeless  thing  a  touch  of 
present  human  interest  and  wonder. 

For  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and  day 
succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the  cold  walls 
looked  down  upon  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  as  if  they  had  a 
Gorgon-like  mind  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into 
stone. 

The  grass  began  to  grow  upon  the  roof,  and  in  the  crevices 
of  the  basement  paving.  A  scaly  crumbling  vegetation 
sprouted  round  the  window-sills.  Fragments  of  mortar  lost 
their  hold  upon  the  insides  of  the  unused  chimneys,  and  came 
dropping  down.  The  two  trees  with  the  smoky  trunks  were 
blighted  high  up,  and  the  withered  branches  domineered 
above  the  leaves.  Through  the  whole  building  white  had 
turned  yellow,  yellow  nearly  black  ;  and  since  the  time  when 
the  poor  lady  died,  it  had  slowly  become  a  dark  gap  in  the 
long  monotonous  street. 

But  Florence  bloomed  there,  like  the  king's  fair  daughter 
in  the  story.  Her  books,  her  music,  and  her  daily  teachers 
were  her  only  real  companions,  Susan  Nipper  and  Diogenes 
excepted  ;  of  whom  the  former,  in  her  attendance  on  the 
"studies  of  her  young  mistress,  began  to  grow  quite  learned 
herself  ;  while  the  latter,  softened  possibly  by  the  same 
influences,  would  lay  his  head  upon  the  window-ledge,  and 
placidly  open  and  shut  his  eyes  upon  the  street,  all  through 
a  summer  morning  ;  sometimes  pricking  up  his  head  to  look 
with  great  significance  after  some  noisy  dog  in  a  cart,  who 
was  barking  his  way  along,    and   sometimes,   with  an  exas- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  327 

perated  and  unaccountable  recollection  of  his  supposed 
enemy  in  the  neighborhood,  rushing  to  the  door,  whence, 
after  a  deafening  disturbance,  he  would  come  jogging  back 
with  a  ridiculous  complacency  that  belonged  to  him,  and 
lay  his  jaw  upon  the  window-ledge  again,  with  the  air  of  a 
dog  who  had  done  a  public  service. 

So  Florence  lived  in  her  wilderness  of  a  home,  within  the 
circle  of  her  innocent  pursuits  and  thoughts,  and  nothing 
harmed  her.  She  could  go  down  to  her  father's  rooms  now, 
and  think  of  him,  and  suffer  her  loving  heart  humbly  to 
approach  him,  without  fear  of  repulse.  She  could  look  upon 
the  objects  that  had  surrounded  him  in  his  sorrow,  and  could 
nestle  near  his  chair,  and  not  dread  the  glance  that  she  so 
well  remembered.  She  could  render  him  such  little  tokens 
of  her  duty  and  service  as  putting  every  thing  in  order  for 
him  with  her  own  hands,  binding  little  nosegays  for  his  table, 
changing  them  as  one  by  one  they  withered,  and  he  did  not 
come  back,  preparing  something  for  him  every  day,  and 
leaving  some  timid  mark  of  her  presence  near  his  usual  seat. 
To-day  it  was  a  little  prdnted  stand  for  his  watch  ;  to-morrow 
she  would  be  afraid  to  leave  it,  would  substitute  some  other 
trifle  of  her  making  not  so  likely  to  attract  his  eye.  Waking 
in  the  night,  perhaps,  she  would  tremble  at  the  thought  of  his 
coming  home  and  angrily  rejecting  it,  and  would  hurry  down 
with  slippered  feet  and  quickly  beating  heart  and  bring  it 
away.  At  another  time,  she  would  only  lay  her  face  upon 
his  desk,  and  leave  a  kiss  there,  and  a  tear. 

Still  no  one  knew  of  this.  Unless  the  household  found  it 
out  when  she  was  not  there — and  they  all  held  Mr.  Dombey's 
rooms  in  awe — it  was  as  deep  a  secret  in  her  breast  as  what 
had  gone  before  it.  Florence  stole  into  those  rooms  at  twilight, 
early  in  the  morning,  and  at  times  when  meals  were  served 
down-stairs.  And  although  they  were  in  every  nook  the 
better  and  the  brighter  for  her  care,  she  entered  and  passed 
out  as  quietly  as  any  sunbeam,  excepting  that  she  left  her 
light  behind. 

Shadowy  company  attended  Florence  up  and  down  the 
echoing  house,  and  sat  with  her  in  the  dismantled  rooms. 
As  if  her  life  were  an  enchanted  vision,  there  arose  out  of 
her  solitude  ministering  thoughts,  that  made  it  fanciful 
and  unreal.  She  imagined  so  often  what  her  life  would 
have  been  if  her  father  could  have  loved  her  and  she  had 
been  a  favorite  child,  that  sometimes,  for  the  moment,  she 
almost  believed  it  was  so,  and  borne  by   the   current  of  that 


328  DOMBEY  ANEJ  SON. 

pensive  fiction,  seemed  to  remember  how  they  had  watched 
her  brother  in  his  grave  together;  how  they  had  freely  shared 
his  heart  between  them  ;  how  they  were  united  in  the  dear 
remembrance  of  him  ;  how  they  often  spoke  about  him 
yet  ;  and  her  kind  father,  looking  at  her  gently,  told  her  of 
their  common  hope  and  trust  in  God.  At  other  times  she 
pictured  to  herself  her  mother  yet  alive.  And  oh  the  happi- 
ness of  falling  on  her  neck,  and  clinging  to  her  with  the  love 
and  confidence  of  all  her  soul  !  And  oh  the  desolation  of 
the  solitary  house  again,  with  evening  coming  on,  and  no 
one  there  ! 

But  there  was  one  thought,  scarcely  shaped  out  to 
herself,  yet  fervent  and  strong  within  her,  that  upheld 
Florence  when  she  strove  an,d  filled  her  true  young  heart,  so 
sorely  tried,  with  constancy  of  purpose.  Into  her  mind,  as 
into  all  others  contending  with  the  great  afiliction  of  our 
mortal  nature,  there  had  stolen  solemn  wonderings  and 
hopes,  arising  in  the  dim  world  beyond  the  present  life, 
and  murmuring,  like  faint  music,  of  recognition  in  the  far-off 
land  between  her  brother  and  her  mother  ;  of  some  pres- 
ent consciousness  in  both  of  her;  some  love  and  commisera- 
tion for  her  ;  and  some  knowledge  of  her  as  she  went  her 
way  upon  the  earth.  It  was  a  soothing  consolation  to 
Florence  to  give  shelter  to  these  thoughts,  until  one  day — it 
was  soon  after  she  had  last  seen  her  father  in  his  own  room, 
late  at  night — the  fancy  came  upon  her,  that,  in  weeping 
for  his  alienated  heart,  she  might  stir  the  spirits  of  the  dead 
against  him.  Wild,  weak,  childish,  as  it  may  have  been  to 
think  so,  and  to  tremble  at  the  half-formed  thought,  it  was 
the  impulse  of  her  loving  nature  ;  and  from  that  hour 
Florence  strove  against  the  cruel  wound  in  her  breast, 
and  tried  to  think  of  him  whose  hand  had  made  it  only 
with  hope. 

Her  father  did  not  know — she  held  to  it  from  that  time — 
how  much  she  loved  him.  She  was  very  young,  and  had  no 
mother,  and  had  never  learned,  by  some  fault  or  misfortune, 
how  to  express  to  him  that  she  loved  him.  She  would  be 
patient,  and  would  try  to  gain  that  art  in  time,  and  win  him 
to  a  better  knowledge  of  his  only  child. 

This  became  the  purpose  of  her  life.  The  morning  sun 
shone  down  upon  the  faded  house,  and  found  the  resolution 
bright  and  fresh  within  the  bosom  of  its  solitary  mistress. 
Through  all  the  duties  of  day,  it  animated  her;  for  Florence 
hoped  that  the  more  she  knew,  and  the  more    accomplished 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  329 

she  became,  the  more  glad  he  would  be  when'  he  came  to 
know  and  like  her.  Sometimes  she  wondered,  with  a  swell- 
ing heart  and  rising  tear,  whether  she  was  proficient  enough 
in  any  thing  to  surprise  him  when  they  should  become  com- 
panions. Sometimes  she  tried  to  think  if  there  were  any 
kind  of  knowledge  that  would  bespeak  his  interest  more 
readily  than  another.  Always — at  her  books,  her  music, 
and  her  work — in  her  morning  walks  and  in  her  nightly 
prayers  — she  had  her  engrossing  aim  in  view.  Strange  study 
for  a  child,  to  learn  the  road  to  a  hard  parent's  heart  ! 

There  were  manv  careless  loungers  through  the  street,  as  the 
summer  evening  depened  into  night,  who  glanced  across  the 
road  at  the  somber  house,  and  saw  the  youthful  figure  at 
the  window,  such  a  contrast  to  it,  looking  upward  at  the 
stars  as  they  began  to  shine,  who  Avould  have  slept  the  worse 
if  they  had  known  on  what  design  she  mused  so  steadfastly. 
The  reputation  of  the  mansion  as  a  haunted  house  would 
not  have  been  the  gayer  with  soijie  humble  dwellers  else- 
where, who  were  struck  by  its  external  gloom  in  passing 
on  their  daily  avocations  and  so  named  it,  if  they  could  have 
read  its  story  in  the  darkening  face.  But  Florence  held  her 
sacred  purpose  unsuspected  and  unaided  ;  and  studied 
only  how  to  bring  her  father  to  the  understanding  that  she 
loved  him,  and  made  no  appeal  against  him  in  any  wander- 
ing thought. 

Thus  Florence  lived  alone  in  the  deserted  house,  and  day 
succeeded  day,  and  still  she  lived  alone,  and  the  monotonous 
walls  looked  down  upon  her  with  a  stare,  as  if  they  had  a 
Gorgon-like  intent  to  stare  her  youth  and  beauty  into 
stone. 

Susan  Nipper  stood  opposite  to  her  young  mistress  one 
morning  as  she  folded  and  sealed  a  note  she  had  been 
writing,  and  showed  in  her  looks  an  approving  knowledge 
of  its  contents. 

"  Better  late  than  never,  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
"  and  I  do  say  that  even  a  visit  to  them  old  Skettleses  will 
be  a  Godsend." 

"  It  is  very  good  of  Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  Susan," 
returned  Florence,  with  a  mild  correction  of  that  young 
lady's  familiar  mention  of  the  family  in  question,  *'  to  repeat 
their  invitation  so  kindly." 

Miss  Nipper,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  thorough-going 
partisan  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  who  carried  her  par- 
tisanship into    all  matters   great   or   small,   and  perpetually 


330  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

waged  war  with  it  against  society,  screwed  up  her  lips  and 
shook  her  head  as  a  protest  against  any  recognition  of  dis- 
interestedness in  the  Skettleses,  and  a  plea  in  bar  that 
they  would  have  valuable  consideration  for  their  kindness  in 
the  company  of  Florence. 

"  They  know  what  they're  about,  if  ever  people  did," 
murmured  Miss  Nipper,  drawing  in  her  breath,  "  oh  !  trust 
them  Skettleses  for  that  !  " 

"  I  am  not  very  anxious  to  go  to  Rulham,  Susan,  I  con- 
fess," said  Florence,  thoughtfully  ;  "  but  it  will  be  right  to 
go.     I  think  it  will  be  better." 

"  Much  better,"  interposed  Susan,  with  another  emphatic 
shake  of  her  head. 

"  And  so,"  said  Florence,  "  though  I  would  prefer  to  have 
gone  when  there  was  no  one  there,  instead  of  in  vacation- 
time,  when  it  seems  there  are  some  young  people  staying 
in  the  house,  I  have  thankfully  said  yes." 

"  For  which  /  say.  Miss, Floy,  oh  be  jovful  !  "  returned 
Susan.     "  Ah— h— h  !  " 

This  last  ejaculation,  with  which  Miss  Nipper  frequently 
wound  up  a  sentence,  at  about  that  epoch  of  time,  was  sup- 
posed below  the  level  of  the  hall  to  have  a  general  reference 
to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  to  be  expressive  of  a  yearning  in  Miss 
Nipper  to  favor  that  gentleman  with  a  piece  of  her  mind. 
But  she  never  explained  it  ;  and  it  had,  in  consequence,  the 
charm  of  mystery,  in  addition  to  the  advantage  of  the  sharp- 
est expression. 

"  How  long  it  is  before  we  have  any  news  of  Walter, 
Susan  !  "  observed  Florence,  after  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Long  indeed,  Miss  Floy  !  "  replied  her  maid.  "  And 
Perch  said,  when  he  came  just  now  to  see  for  letters — but 
what  signifies  what  he  says  !  "  exclaimed  Susan,  reddening 
and  breaking  off.     "  Much  he  knows  about  it  !  " 

Florence  raised  her  eyes  quickly,  and  a  flush  overspread 
her  face. 

"  If  I  hadn't,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  evidently  struggling  with 
some  latent  anxiety  and  alarm,  and  looking  full  at  her  young 
mistress  while  endeavoring  to  work  herself  into  a  state  of 
resentment  with  the  unoffending  Mr.  Perch's  image,  "  if  I 
hadn't  more  manliness  than  that  insipidest  of  his  sex,  I'd 
never  take  pride  in  my  hair  again,  but  turn  it  up  behind  my 
ears,  and  wear  coarse  caps,  w^ithout  a  bit  of  border,  until 
death  released  me  from  my  insignificance.  I  may  not  be  a 
Amazon,  Miss   Floy,  and    wouldn't    so   demean   myself  by 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  331 

such  disfigurement,  but    any   ways  I'm    not   a   giver    up,  I 
hope." 

"Give  up!  What?"  cried  Florence,  with  a  face  of 
terror. 

"  Why,  nothing,  miss,"  said  Susan.  *'  Good  gracious,  noth- 
ing! It's  only  that  wet  curl-paper  of  a  man  Perch,  that  any 
one  might  almost  make  away  with  with  a  touch,  and  really 
it  would  be  a  blessed  event  for  all  parties  if  some  one  would 
take  pity  on  him,  and  would  have  the  goodness  !  " 

"  Does  he  give  up  the  ship,  Susan  ?  "  inquired  Florence, 
very  pale. 

''  No,  miss,"  returned  Susan.  "  I  should  like  to  see  him 
make  so  bold  as  do  it  to  my  face  !  No,  miss,  but  he  goes 
on  about  some  bothering  ginger  that  Mr.  Walter  was  to  send 
to  Mrs.  Perch,  and  shakes  his  dismal  head,  and  says  he  hopes 
it  may  be  coming  ;  anyhow,  he  says,  it  can't  come  now^  in 
time  for  the  intended  occasion,  but  may  do  for  next,  which 
really,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  aggravated  scorn,  "  puts  me 
out  of  patience  with  the  man,  for  though  I  can  bear  a  great 
deal,  I  am  not  a  camel,  neither  am  I,"  added  Susan, 
after  a  moment's  consideration,  "  if  I  know  myself,  a 
dromedary  neither." 

"What  else  does  he  say,  Susan?"  inquired  Florence, 
earnestly.     '' Won't  you  tell  me   ?" 

*' As  if  I  wouldn't' tell  you  any  thing,  Miss  Floy,  and  every 
thing  !  "  said  Susan.  ''  Why,  miss,  he  says  that  there  begins 
to  be  a  general  talk  about  the  ship,  and  that  they  have  never 
had  a  ship  on  that  voyage  half  so  long  unheard  of,  and  that 
the  captain's  wife  was  at  the  office  yesterday,  and  seemed  a 
little  put  out  about  it,  but  any  one  could  say  that,  we  knew 
nearly  that  before." 

"  I  must  visit  Walter's  uncle,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly, 
•'  before  I  leave  home.  I  will  go  and  see  him  this  morning. 
Let  us  walk  there,  directly,  Susan." 

Miss  Nipper  having  nothing  to  urge  against  the  proposal, 
but  being  perfectly  acquiescent,  they  were  soon  equipped, 
and  in  the  streets,  and  on  their  way  toward  the  little  mid- 
shipman. 

The  state  of  mind  in  which  poor  Walter  had  gone  to  Cap- 
tain Cuttle's,  on  the  day  when  Brogley,  the  broker,  came  into 
possession,  and  when  there  seemed  to  him  to  be  an  execution 
in  the  very  steeples,  was  pretty  much  the  same  as  that  in 
which  Florence  now  took  her  way  to  Uncle  Sol's  ;  with  this 
difference,  that  Florence  suffered  the  added  pain  of  thinking 


332  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

that  she  had  been,  perhaps,  the  innocent  occasion  of  involv- 
ing Walter  in  peril,  and  all  to  whom  he  was  dear,  himself 
included,  in  an  agony  of  suspense.  For  the  rest,  uncertainty 
and  danger  seemed  written  upon  every  thing.  The  weather- 
cocks on  spires  and  house-tops  were  mysterious  with  hints 
of  stormy  wind,  and  pointed,  like  so  many  ghostly  fingers, 
out  to  dangerous  seas,  where  fragments  of  great  wrecks 
were  drifting,  perhaps,  and  helpless  men  were  rocked  upon 
them  into  a  sleep  as  deep  as  the  unfathomable  waters.  When 
Florence  came  into  the  city,  and  passed  gentlemen  who  were 
talking  together,  she  dreaded  to  hear  them  speaking  of  the 
ship,  and  saying  it  was  lost.  Pictures  and  prints  of  vessels 
fighting  with  the  rolling  waves  filled  her  with  alarm.  The 
smoke  and  clouds,  though  moving  gently,  moved  too  fast  for 
her  apprehensions,  and  made  her  fear  there  was  a  tempest 
blowing  at  that  moment  on  the  ocean. 

Susan  Nipper  may  or  may  not  have  been  affected  similarly, 
but  having  her  attention  niuch  engaged  in  struggles  with 
boys,  whenever  there  was  any  press  of  people — for,  between 
that  grade  of  human  kind  and  herself  there  was  some  natu- 
ral animosity  that  invariably  broke  out  whenever  they  came 
together — it  would  seem  that  she  had  not  much  leisure  on 
the  road  for  intellectual  operations. 

Arriving  in  good  time  abreast  of  the  wooden  midshipman 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  and  waiting  for  ^  an  oppor- 
tunity to  cross  the  street,  they  were  a  little  surprised  at  first 
to  see,  at  the  instrument-maker's  door,  a  round-headed  lad, 
with  his  chubby  face  addressed  toward  the  sky,  who,  as  they 
looked  at  him,  suddenly  thrust  into  his  capacious  mouth 
two  fingers  of  each  hand,  and  with  the  assistance  of  that 
machinery  whistled,  with  astonishing  shrillness,  to  some 
pigeons  at  a  considerable  elevation  in  the  air. 

"  Mrs.  Richards's  eldest,  miss  !  "  said  Susan,  "  and  the 
worrit  of  Mrs.  Richards's  life  !  " 

As  Polly  had  been  to  tell  Florence  of  the  resuscitated 
prospects  of  her  son  and  heir,  Florence  was  prepared  for  the 
meeting  ;  so,  a  favorable  moment  presenting  itself,  they  both 
hastened  across,  without  any  further  contemplation  of  Mrs. 
Richards's  bane.  That  sporting  character,  unconscious  of 
their  approach,  again  whistled  with  his  utmost  might,  and 
then  yelled  in  a  rapture  of  excitement,  "  Strays  !  Whoo-oop  ! 
Strays  !  "  which  identification  had  such  an  effect  upon  the 
conscience-stricken  pigeons,  that,  instead  of  going  direct  to 
some  town  in  the  North  of  England,  as  appeared  to  have 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  333 

been  their  original  intention,  they  began  to  wheel  and  falter  ; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Richards's  first-born  pierced  them  with 
another  whistle,  and  again  yelled,  in  a  voice  that  rose  above 
the  turmoil  of  the  street,  "  Strays  !  Whoo-oop  !  Strays  !  " 

From  this  transport  he  was  abruptly  recalled  to  terrestrial 
objects  by  a  poke  from  Miss  Nipper,  which  sent  him  into  the 
shop. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  show  your  penitence,  when  Mrs. 
Richards  has  been  fretting  for  you  months  and  months  ?  " 
said  Susan,  following  the  poke.     *'  Where's  Mr.  Gills  ? " 

Rob,  who  smoothed  his  first  rebellious  glance  at  Miss  Nip- 
per when  he  saw  Florence  following,  put  his  knuckles  to  his 
hair,  in  honor  of  the  latter,  and  said  to  the  former,  that  Mr. 
Gills  was  out. 

"  Fetch  him  home,"  said  Miss  Nipper,  with  authority,  "  and 
say  that  my  young  lady's  here." 

"  I  don't  know  where  he's  gone,"  said  Rob. 

"Is  that  your  penitence?"  cried  Susan,  with  stinging 
sharpness. 

"  Why  how  can  I  go  and  fetch  him  when  I  don't  know 
where  to  go  ?  "  whimpered  the  baited  Rob.  "  How  can  you 
be  so  unreasonable  ?  " 

"  Did  Mr.  Gills  say  when  he  should  be  home  !  "  asked 
Florence. 

*^  Yes,  miss,"  replied  Rob,  with  another  application  of  his 
knuckles  to  his  hair.  "  He  said  he  should  be  home  early  in 
the  afternoon  ;  in  about  a  couple  of  hours  from  now,  miss." 

"  Is  he  very  anxious  about  his  nephew  ?  "  inquired  Susan. 

*'  Yes,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  preferring  to  address  himself 
to  Florence  and  slighting  Nipper  ;  "  I  should  say  he  was 
very  much  so.  He  ain't  in- doors,  miss,  not  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  together.  He  can't  settle  in  one  place  five  minutes. 
He  goes  about  like  a — just  like  a  stray,"  said  Rob,  stooping 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  pigeons  through  the  window,  and 
checking  himself,  with  his  fingers  half-way  to  his  mouth,  on 
the  verge  of  another  whistle. 

"  Do  you  know  a  friend  of  VLx.  Gills,  called  Captain  Cut- 
tle ?"  inquired  Florence,  after  a  moment's  reflection. 

"  Him  with  a  hook,  miss  ?  "  rejoined  Rob,  with  an  illus- 
trative twist  of  his  left  hand.  *'  Yes,  miss.  He  was  here 
the  day  before  yesterday." 

''  Has  he  not  been  here  since  ?  "  asked  Susan. 

"  No,  miss,"  returned  Rob,  still  addressing  his  reply  to 
Florence. 


334 


DOMBEY   AND    SON. 


"  Perhaps  Walter's  uncle  has  gone  there,  Susan,"  observed 
Florence,  turning  to  her. 

"  To  Captain  Cuttle's,  miss,"  interposed  Rob  ;  "  no,  he's 
not  gone  there,  miss.  Because  he  left  particular  word  that 
if  Captain  Cuttle  called,  I  should  tell  him  how  surprised  he 
was  not  to  have  seen  him  yesterday,  and  should  make  him 
stop  till  he  came  back." 

"  Do  you  know  where  Captain  Cuttle  lives  ?  "  asked  Flor- 
ence, 

Rob  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  turning  to  a  greasy 
parchment  book  on  the  shop  desk,  read  the  address  aloud. 

Florence  again  turned  to  her  maid  and  took  counsel  with 
her  in  a  low  voice,  while  Rob  the  round-eyed,  mindful  of  his 
patron's  secret  charge,  looked  on  and  listened.  Florence 
proposed  that  they  should  go  to  Captain  Cuttle's  house  ; 
hear  from  his  own  lips  what  he  thought  of  the  absence  of 
any  tidings  of  the  Son  and  Heir ;  and  bring  him,  if  they 
could,  to  comfort  Uncle  Sol.  Susan  at  first  objected  slightly 
on  the  score  of  distance  ;  but  a  hackney-coach  being  men- 
tioned by  her  mistress,  withdrew  that  opposition,  and  gave 
in  her  assent.  There  were  some  minutes  of  discussion 
between  them  before  they  came  to  this  conclusion,  during 
which  the  staring  Rob  paid  close  attention  to  both  speakers, 
and  inclined  his  ear  to  each  by  turns,  as  if  he  were  appointed 
arbitrator  of  the  arguments. 

In  fine,  Rob  was  dispatched  for  a  coach,  the  visitors  keep- 
ing shop  meanwhile  ;  and  when  he  brought  it,  they  got  into 
it,  leaving  word  for  Uncle  Sol  that  they  would  be  sure  to 
call  again  on  their  way  back.  Rob  having  stared  after  the 
coach  until  it  was  as  invisible  as  the  pigeons  had  now  become, 
sat  down  behind  the  desk  with  a  most  assiduous  demeanor ; 
and,  in  order  that  he  might  forget  nothing  of  what  had  tran- 
spired, made  notes  of  it  on  various  small  scraps  of  paper, 
with  a  vast  expenditure  of  ink.  There  was  no  danger  of 
these  documents  betraying  any  thing,  if  accidentally  lost ; 
for  long  before  a  word  was  dry,  it  became  as  profound  a 
mystery  to  Rob  as  if  he  had  had  no  part  whatever  in  its  pro- 
duction. 

While  he  was  yet  busy  with  these  labors,  the  hackney- 
coach,  after  encountering  unheard-of  difficulties  from  swivel- 
bridges,  soft  roads,  impassable  canals,  caravans  of  casks, 
settlements  of  scarlet-beans  and  little  wash-houses,  and  many 
such  obstacles  abounding  in  that  country,  stopped  at  the 
corner  of  Brig  Place.     Alighting  here,  Florence  and  Susan 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  335 

Nipper  walked  down  the  street,  and  sought  out  the  abode  of 
Captain  Cuttle. 

It  happened  by  evil  chance  to  be  one  of  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
great  cleaning  days.  On  these  occasions  Mrs.  MacStinger 
was  knocked  up  by  the  policeman  at  a  quarter  before  three 
in  the  morning,  and  rarely  succumbed  before  twelve  o'clock 
next  night.  I'he  chief  object  of  this  institution  appeared 
to  be,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  should  move  all  the  furniture 
into  the  back  garden  at  early  dawn,  walk  about  the  house 
in  pattens  all  day,  and  move  the  furniture  back  again  after 
dark.  These  ceremonies  greatly  fluttered  those  doves  the 
young  MacStingers,  who  were  not  only  unable  at  such  times 
to  find  any  resting-place  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  but  gen- 
erally came  in  for  a  good  deal  of  pecking  from  the  maternal 
bird  during  the  progress  of  the  solemnities. 

At  the  moment  when  Florence  and  Susan  Nipper  presented 
themselves  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's  door,  that  worthy  but 
redoubtable  female  was  in  the  act  of  conveying  Alexander 
MacStinger,  aged  two  years  and  three  months,  along  the 
passage  for  forcible  deposition  in  a  sitting  posture  on  the 
street  pavement  ;  Alexander  being  black  in  the  face  with 
holding  his  breath  after  punishment,  and  a  cool  paving-stone 
being  usually  found  to  act  as  a  powerful  restorative  in  such 
cases. 

The  feelings  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  as  a  woman  and  a 
mother,  were  outraged  by  the  look  of  pity  for  Alexander 
which  she  observed  on  Florence's  face.  Therefore,  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  asserting  those  finest  emotions  of  our  nature, 
in  preference  to  weakly  gratifying  her  curiosity,  shook  and 
buffeted  Alexander,  both  before  and  during  the  application 
of  the  paving-stone,  and  took  no  further  notice  of  the  stran- 
gers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Florence,  when  the 
child  had  found  his  breath  again,  and  was  using  it.  "  Is 
this  Captain  Cuttle's  house  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

"  Not  Number  Nine  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hesitating. 

''  Who  said  it  wasn't  Number  Nine?  "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 

Susan  Nipper  instantly  struck  in,  and  begged  to  inquire 
what  Mrs.  MacStinger  meant  by  that,  and  if  she  knew  whom 
she  was  talking  to. 

:Mrs.  MacStinger  in  retort,  looked  at  her  all  over.  "  What 
do  vo7i  want  with  Captain  Cuttle,  I  should  wish  to  know  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  MacStinger. 


:^:^(5  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I'm  sorry  that  you  won't  be  satis- 
fied," returned  Miss  Nipper. 

"  Hush,  Susan  !  If  you  please  !  "  said  Florence.  "  Per- 
haps you  can  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us  where  Captain 
Cuttle  lives,  ma'am,  as  he  don't  live  here." 

"  Who  says  he  don't  live  here  ?  "  retorted  the  implacable 
MacStinger.  ''  I  said  it  wasn't  Cap'en  Cuttle's  house — and 
it  ain't  his  house — and  forbid  it  that  it  ever  should  be  his 
house — for  Cap'en  Cuttle  don't  know  how  to  keep  a  house — 
and  don't  deserve  to  have  a  house — it's  my  house — and  when 
I  let  the  upper  floor  to  Cap'en  Cuttle,  oh  I  do  a  thankless 
thing,  and  cast  pearls  before  swine  !  " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  pitched  her  voice  for  the  upper  windows 
in  offering  these  remarks,  and  cracked  off  each  clause 
sharply  by  itself  as  if  from  a  rifle  possessing  an  infinity  of 
barrels.  After  the  last  shot,  the  captain's  voice  was  heard 
to  sav,  in  feeble  remonstrance  from  his  own  room,  '*  Steady 
below  !  " 

"  Since  you  v/ant  Cap'en  Cuttle,  there  he  is  !  "  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  an  angry  motion  of  her  hand.  On  Flor- 
ence making  bold  to  enter,  without  any  more  parley,  and  on 
Susan  following,  Mrs.  MacStinger  recommenced  her  pedes- 
trian exercise  in  pattens,  and  Alexander  MacStinger  (still  on 
the  paving-stone),  who  had  stopped  his  crying  to  attend  to 
the  conversation,  began  to  wail  again,  entertaining  himself 
during  that  dismal  performance,  which  was  quite  mechani- 
cal, with  a  general  survey  of  the  prospect,  terminating  in  the 
hackney-coach. 

The  captain  in  his  own  apartment  was  sitting  with  his 
hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  legs  drawn  up  under  his  chair, 
on  a  very  small  desolate  island,  lying  about  midway  in  an 
ocean  of  soap  and  water.  The  captain's  windows  had  been 
cleaned,  the  walls  had  been  cleaned,  the  stove  had  been 
cleaned,  and  every  thing,  the  stove  excepted,  was  wet,  and 
shining  with  soft  soap  and  sand  ;  the  smell  of  which  dry- 
saltery impregnated  the  air.  In  the  midst  of  the  dreary 
scene,  the  captain,  cast  away  upon  his  island,  looked  round 
on  the  waste  of  waters  with  a  rueful  countenance,  and  seemed 
waiting  for  some  friendly  bark  to  come  that  way  and  take 
him  off. 

But  when  the  captain,  directing  his  forlorn  visage  toward 
the  door,  saw  Florence  appear  with  her  maid,  no  words  can 
express  his  astonishment.  Mrs.  MacStinger's  eloquence 
having  rendered  all  other  sounds  but  imperfectly  distinguish- 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  337 

able,  he  had  looked  for  no  rarer  visitor  than  the  pot-boy  or 
the  milkman  ;  wherefore,  when  Florence  appeared,  and 
coming  to  the  confines  of  the  island,  put  her  hand  in  his,  the 
captain  stood  up,  aghast,  as  if  he  supposed  her,  for  the 
moment,  to  be  some  young  member  of  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man's family. 

Instantly  recovering  his  self-possession,  however,  the  cap- 
tain's first  care  was  to  place  her  on  dry  land,  which  he 
happily  accomplished,  with  one  motion  of  his  arm.  Issuing 
forth,  then,  upon  the  main,  Captain  Cuttle  took  Miss  Nip- 
per round  the  waist,  and  bore  her  to  the  island  also.  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  then,  with  great  respect  and  admiration,  raised 
the  hand  of  Florence  to  his  lips,  and  standing  off  a  little 
(for  the  island  was  not  large  enough  for  three),  beamed  on 
her  from  the  soap-and-water  like  a  new  description  of  Triton. 

"  You  are  amazed  to  see  us,  I  am  sure,"  said  Florence, 
with  a  smile. 

The  inexpressibly  gratified  captain  kissed  his  hook  in 
reply,  and  growled,  as  if  a  choice  and  delicate  compliment 
were  included  in  the  words,  "  Stand  by  !  Stand  by  I  " 

"  But  I  couldn't  rest,"  said  Florence,  "  without  coming  to 
ask  you  what  you  think  about  dear  Walter — who  is  my 
brother  now — and  whether  there  is  any  thing  to  fear,  and 
whether  you  will  not  go  and  console  his  poor  uncle  every 
day,  until  we  have  some  intelligence  of  him  ?  " 

At  these  words  Captain  Cuttle,  as  by  an  involuntary  ges- 
ture, clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which  the  hard  glazed 
hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited. 

"  Have  you  any  fears  for  Walter's  safety  ?  "  inquired 
Florence,  from  whose  face  the  captain  (so  enraptured  he 
was  with  it)  could  not  take  his  eyes  ;  while  she  in  her  turn, 
looked  earnestly  at  him,  to  be  assured  of  the  sincerity  of  his 
reply. 

''  No,  Heart' s-delight,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "  I  am  not 
afeard.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'U  go  through  a  deal  o'  hard 
weather.  Wal'r  is  a  lad  as'U  bring  as  much  success  to  that 
'ere  brig  as  a  lad  is  capable  on.  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain, 
his  eyes  glistening  with  the  praise  of  his  young  friend,  and 
his  hook  raised  to  announce  a  beautiful  quotation,  "  is  what 
you  may  call  a  out'ard  and  visible  sign  of  a  in'ard  and  spir- 
ited grasp,  andv^-hen  found  make  a  note  of." 

Florence,  who  did  not  quite  understand  this,  though  the 
captain  evidently  thought  it  full  of  meaning,  and  highly 
satisfactory,  mildly  looked  to  him  for  something  more. 


33S  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  I  am  not  afeard,  my  Heart's-delight,"  resumed  the 
captain.  "  There's  been  most  uncommon  bad  weather  in 
them  latitudes,  there's  no  denyin',  and  they  have  drove  and 
drove  and  been  beat  off  maybe  t'other  side  of  the  world.  But 
the  ship's  a  good  ship,  and  the  lad's  a  good  lad  ;  and  it 
ain't  easy,  thank  the  Lord,"  the  captain  made  a  little  bow, 
"  to  break  up  hearts  of  oak,  whether  they're  in  brigs  or 
buzzums.  Here  we  have  'em  both  ways,  which  is  bringing 
it  up  with  a  round  turn,  and  so  I  ain't  a  bit  afeard  as  yet." 

''  As  yet  ?  "  repeated  Florence. 

"  Not  a  bit,"  returned  the  captain,  kissing  his  iron  hand  ; 
"  and  afore  I  begin  to  be,  my  Heart's-delight,  Wal'r  will 
have  wrote  home  from  the  island,  or  from  some  port  or 
another,  and  made  all  taut  and  ship-shape.  And  with 
regard  to  old  Sol  Gills,"  here  the  captain  became  solemn, 
"  who  I'll  stand  by,  and  not  desert  until  death  do  us  part, 
and  when  the  stormy  winds  do  blow,  do  blow,  do  blow — 
overhaul  the  Catechism,"  said  the  captain,  parenthetically, 
"  and  there  you'll  find  them  expressions — if  it  would  con- 
sole Sol  Gills  to  have  the  opinion  of  a  sea-faring  man  as 
has  got  a  mind  equal  to  any  undertaking  that  he  puts  it 
alongside  of,  and  as  was  all  but  smashed  in  his  'prenticeship, 
and  of  which  the  name  is  Bunsby,  that  'ere  man  shall  give 
him  such  an  opinion  in  his  own  parlor  as'U  stun  him. 
Ah  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  vauntingly,  "  as  much  as  if  he'd 
gone  and  knocked  his  head  again  a  door  !  " 

"  Let  us  take  this  gentleman  to  see  him,  and  let  us  hear 
what  he  says,"  cried  Florence.  ''  Will  you  go  v/ith  us  now  ? 
We  have  a  coach  here." 

Again  the  captain  clapped  his  hand  to  his  head,  on  which 
the  hard  glazed  hat  was  not,  and  looked  discomfited.  But 
at  this  instant  a  most  remarkable  phenomenon  occurred. 
The  door  opening,  without  any  note  of  preparation,  and 
apparently  of  itself,  the  hard  glazed  hat  in  question 
skimmed  into  the  room  like  a  bird,  and  a  lighted  heavily  at 
the  captain's  feet.  The  door  then  shut  as  violently  as  it  had 
opened,  and  nothing  ensued  in  explanation  of  the  prodigy. 

Captain  Cuttle  picked  up  his  hat,  and  having  turned  it 
over  with  a  look  of  interest  and  welcome,  began  to  polish 
it  on  his  sleeve.  While  doing  so,  the  captain  eyed  his  visi- 
tors intently^  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  You  see  I  should  have  bore  down  on  Sol  Gills  yesterday, 
and  this  morning,  but  she — she  took  it  away  and  kept  it, 
That's  the  long  and  short  of  the  subject." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  339 

"  Who  did,  for  goodness'  sake  ?  "  asked  Susan  Nipper. 

*'  The  lady  of  the  house,  my  dear,"  returned  the  captain, 
in  a  gruff  whisper,  and  making  signals  of  secrecy.  "  We 
had  some  words  about  the  swabbing  of  these  here  planks, 
and  she — in  short,"  said  the  captain,  eying  the  door,  and 
relieving  himself  with  a  long  breath,  ''  she  stopped  my 
liberty." 

*'  dh  I  I  wish  she  had  me  to  deal  with  !  "  said  Susan, 
reddening  with  the  energy  of  the  wish.     ''  I'd  stop  her  !  " 

"Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear?"  rejoined  the 
captain,  shaking  his  head  doubtfully,  but  regarding  the 
desperate  courage  of  the  fair  aspirant  with  obvious  admira- 
tion. "  I  don't  know.  It's  difficult  navigation.  She's  very 
hard  to  carry  on  with,  my  dear.  You  never  can  tell  how 
she'll  head,  you  see.  She's  full  one  minute,  and  round  upon 
you  next.  And  when  she  is  a  Tartar,"  said  the  captain, 
with  the  perspiration  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead — There 
was  nothing  but  a  whistle  emphatic  enough  for  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  sentence,  so  the  captain  whistled  tremulously. 
After  which  he  again  shook  his  head,  and  recurring  to  his 
admiration  of  Miss  Nipper's  devoted  bravery,  timidly 
repeated,  "  Would  you,  do  you   think,   my  dear  ?  " 

Susan  only  replied  with  a  bridling  sniile,  but  that  was  so 
very  full  of  defiance,  that  thore  is  no  knowing  how  long  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  might  have  stood  entranced  in  its  contemplation 
if  Florence,  in  her  anxiety,  had  not  again  proposed  their 
immediately  resorting  to  the  oracular  Bunsby.  Thus 
reminded  of  his  duty.  Captain  Cuttle  put  on  the  glazed  hat 
firmly,  took  up  another  knobby  stick,  with  which  he  had 
supplied  the  place  of  that  one  given  to  Walter,  and  offer- 
ing his  arm  to  Florence,  prepared  to  cut  his  way  through  the 
enemy. 

It  turned  out,  however,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  had  already 
changed  her  course,  and  that  she  headed,  as  the  captain 
had  remarked  she  often  did,  in  quite  a  new  direction.  For 
when  they  got  down- stairs,  they  found  that  exemplary 
woman  beating  the  mats  on  the  door-steps,  v/ith  Alexander, 
still  upon  the  paving-stone,  dimly  looming  through  a  fog  of 
dust  ;  and  so  absorbed  was  Mrs.  MacStinger  in  her  house- 
hold occupation,  that  when  Captain  Cuttle  and  his  visitors 
passed,  she  beat  the  harder,  and  neither  by  word  nor  gesture 
showed  any  consciousness  of  their  vicinity.  The  captain 
was  so  well  pleased  with  this  easy  escape — although  the 
effect  of  the  door-mats  on  him  was  like  a  copious  administra- 


340  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tion  of  snuff,  and  made  him  sneeze  mitil  the  tears  ran  dovv-u  his 
face — that  he  could  hardly  believe  his  good  fortune  ;  but 
more  than  once,  between  the  door  and  the  hackney-coach, 
looked  over  his  shoulder,  with  an  obvious  apprehension  of 
Mrs.   MacStinger's  giving  chase  yet. 

However,  they  got  to  the  corner  of  Brig  Place  without  any 
molestation  from  that  terrible  fire-ship  -,  and  the  captain 
mounting  the  coach-box — for  his  gallantry  would  not  allow 
him  to  ride  inside  with  the  ladies,  though  besought  to  do  so 
— piloted  the  driver  on  his  course  for  Captain  Bunsby's 
vessel,  which  was  called  the  Cautious  Clara,  and  was  lying 
hard  by  Ratcliffe. 

Arrived  at  the  wharf  off  which  this  great  commander'^ 
ship  was  jammed  in  among  some  five  hundred  companions, 
whose  tangled  rigging  looked  like  monstrous  cobwebs  half 
swept  down.  Captain  Cuttle  appeared  at  the  coach  window, 
and  invited  Florence  and  Miss  Nipper  to  accompany  him 
on  board  ;  observing  that  Bunsby  was  to  the  last  degree  soft- 
hearted in  respect  of  ladies,  and  that  nothing  would  so  much 
tend  to  bring  his  expansive  intellect  into  a  state  of  harmony 
as  their  presentation  to  the  Cautious  Clara. 

Florence  readily  consented  ;  and  the  captain  taking  her 
little  hand  in  his  prodigious  palm,  led  her,  with  a  mixed 
expression  of  patrciiage,  paternity,  pride,  and  ceremony,  that 
was  pleasant  to  see,  over  several  very  dirty  decks,  until  com- 
ing to  the  Clara.,  they  found  that  cautious  craft  (which  lay 
outside  the  tier}  with  her  gangway  removed,  and  half  a  dozen 
feet  of  river  interposed  between  herself  and  her  nearest  neigh- 
bor. It  appeared,  from  Captain  Cuttle's  explanation,  that 
the  great  Bunsby,  like  himself,  was  cruelly  treated  by  his 
landlady,  and  that  when  her  usage  of  him  for  the  time  being 
was  so  hard  that  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  he  set  this  gulf 
between  t/.iem  as  a  last  resource. 

"  Clara  ahoy  !  "  cried  the  captain,  putting  a  hand  to  each 
side  of  his  mouth. 

*' Ah'jy  !  "  cried  a  boy,  like  the  captain's  echo,  tumbling 
up  from  below. 

''  Bansby  aboard  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  hailing  the  boy  in 
a  steiitorian  voice,  as  if  he  were  half  a  mile  off  instead  of  two 
yards. 

*'  Ay,  ay  !  "  cried  the  boy,  in  the  same  tone. 

Vhe  boy  then  shoved  out  a  plank  to  Captain  Cuttle,  who 
adjusted  it  carefully,  and  led  Florence  across  ;  returning 
for  Miss  Nipper.     So  they  stood   upon  the  deck  of  the  Cau- 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  341 

tious  Clara,  in  whose  standing  rigging  divers  fluttering  articles 
of  dress  were  curing,  in  company  with  a  few  tongues  and  some 
mackerel. 

Immediately  there  appeared,  coming  slowly  up  above  the 
bulk-head  of  the  cabin,  another  bulk-head — human,  and 
very  large — with  one  stationary  eye  in  the  mahogany  face, 
and  one  revolving  one,  on  the  principle  of  some  light-houses. 
This  head  was  decorated  with  shaggy  hair,  like  oakum,  which 
had  no  governing  inclination  toward  the  north,  east,  west,  or 
south,  but  inclined  to  all  four  quarters  of  the  compass,  and 
to  every  point  upon  it.  The  head  was  followed  by  a  perfect 
desert  of  chin,  and  by  a  shirt-collar  and  neckerchief,  and  by 
a  dreadnaught  pilot-coat,  and  by  a  pair  of  dreadnaught  pilot- 
trowsers,  whereof  the  waistband  was  so  very  broad  and  high, 
that  it  became  a  succedaneum  for  a  waistcoat  ;  being  orna- 
mented near  the  wearer's  breast-bone  with  some  massive 
wooden  buttons,  like  backgammon  men.  As  the  lower  por- 
tions of  these  pantaloons  became  revealed,  Bunsby  stood  con- 
fessed ;  his  hands  in  their  pockets,  which  were  of  vast  size  ; 
and  his  gaze  directed,  not  to  Captain  Cuttle  or  the  ladies,  but 
the  mast-head. 

The  profound  appearance  of  this  philosopher,  who  was 
bulky  and  strong,  and  on  whose  extremely  red  face  an  expres- 
sion of  taciturnity  sat  enthroned,  not  inconsistent  with  his 
character,  in  which  that  quality  was  proudly  conspicuous, 
almost  daunted  Captain  Cuttle,  though  on  familiar  terms 
with  him.  Whispering  to  Florence  that  Bunsby  had  never 
in  his  life  expressed  surprise,  and  was  considered  not  to  know 
what  it  meant,  the  captain  watched  him  as  he  eyed  his  mast- 
head, and  afterward  swept  the  horizon  ;  and  when  the  revolv- 
ing eye  seemed  to  be  coming  round  in  his  direction,  said  : 

"  Bunsby,  my  lad,  how  fares  it?  " 

A  deep,  gruff,  husky  utterance,  which  seemed  to  have  no 
connection  with  Bunsby,  and  certainly  had  not  the  least 
effect  upon  his  face,  replied,  "  Ay,  ay,  shipmet,  how  goes  it  ?  " 
At  the  same  time,  Bunsby's  right  hand  and  arm,  emerg- 
ing from  a  pocket,  shook  the  captain's,  and  went  back 
again. 

''  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  striking  home  at  once,  '^  here 
you  are  ;  a  man  of  mind,  and  a  man  as  can  give  an  opinion. 
Here's  a  young  lady  as  wants  to  take  that  opinion  in  regard 
of  my  friend  Wal'r  ;  likewise  my  t'other  friend,  Sol  Gills, 
which  is  a  character  for  you  to  come  within  hail  of,  being  a 
man  of  science,  which  is  the  mother  of  inwention,  and  \  >^owo 


342  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

no  law.  Bunsby,  will  you  wear,  to  oblige  me,  and  come  along 
with  us  ?  " 

The  great  commander,  who  seemed  by  the  expression  of 
his  visage  to  be  always  on  the  look-out  for  something  in  the 
extremest  distance,  and  to  have  no  ocular  knowledge  of  any 
thing  within  ten  miles,  made  no  reply  whatever. 

*' Here  is  a  man,"  said  the  captain,  addressing  himself  to 
his  fair  auditors,  and  indicating  the  commander  with  his 
outstretched  hook,  "  that  has  fell  down  more  than  any  man 
alive  ;  that  has  had  more  accidents  happen  to  his  own  self 
than  the  Seamen's  Hospital  to  all  hands  ;  that  took  as  many 
spars  and  bars  and  bolts  about  the  outside  of  his  head  when 
he  was  young,  as  you'd  want  an  order  for  on  Chatham-yard 
to  build  a  pleasure-yacht  with  ;  and  yet  that  got  his  opinions 
in  that  way,  it's  my  belief,  for  there  ain't  nothing  like  'em 
afloat  or  ashore." 

The  stolid  commander  appeared,  by  a  very  slight  vibration 
in  his  elbows,  to  express  some  satisfaction  in  this  encomium  ; 
but  if  his  face  had  been  as  distant  as  his  gaze  was,  it  could 
hardly  have  enlightened  the  beholders  less  in  reference  to  any 
thing  that  was  passing  in  his  thoughts. 

"  Shipmet,"  said  Bunsby,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  stooping 
down  to  look  out  under  some  interposing  spar,  "  what'll  the 
ladies  drink  ? " 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  delicacy  was  shocked  by  such  an 
inquiry  in  connection  with  Florence,  drew  the  sage  aside,  and, 
seeming  to  explain  in  his  ear,  accompanied  him  below  ; 
where  that  he  might  not  take  offense,  the  captain  drank  a 
dram  himseK,  which  Florence  and  Susan,  glancing  down  the 
open  sky-light,  saw  the  sage,  with  difficulty  finding  room  for 
himself  between  his  berth  and  a  very  little  brass  fire-place, 
serve  out  for  self  and  friend.  They  soon  reappeared  on 
deck,  and  Captain  Cuttle,  triumphing  in  the  success  of  his 
enterprise,  conducted  Florence  back  to  the  coach,  while 
Bunsby  followed,  escorting  Miss  Nipper,  whom  he  hugged 
upon  the  way  (much  to  that  young  lady's  indignation)  with 
his  pilot-coated  arm,  like  a  blue  bear. 

The  captain  put  his  oracle  inside,  and  gloried  so  much  in 
having  secured  him,  and  having  got  that  mind  into  a  hack- 
ney-coach, that  he  could  not  refrain  from  often  peeping  in  at 
Florence  through  the  little  window  behind  the  driver,  and 
testifying  his  delight  in  smiles,  and  also  in  taps  upon  his  fore- 
head, to  hint  to  her  that  the  brain  of  Bunsby  was  hard  at  it. 
In   the   mean    time,  Bunsby,  still   hugging  Miss  Nipper  (for 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  343 

his  friend,  the  captain,  had  not  exaggerated  the  softness  of 
his  heart),  uniformly  preserved  his  gravity  of  deportment, 
and  showed  no  other  consciousness  of  her  or  any  thing. 

Uncle  Sol,  who  had  come  home,  received  them  at  the  door, 
and  ushered  them  immediately  into  the  little  back-parlor  ; 
strangely  altered  by  the  absence  of  Walter.  On  the  table, 
and  about  the  room,  were  the  charts  and  maps  on  which  the 
heavy-hearted  instrument-maker  had  again  and  again  tracked 
the  missing  vessel  across  the  sea,  and  on  which,  with  a  pair 
of  compasses  that  he  still  had  in  his  hand,  he  had  been 
measuring,  a  minute  before,  how  far  she  must  have  driven  to 
have  driven  here  or  there  ;  and  trying  to  demonstrate  that  a 
long  time  must  elapse  before  hope  was  exhausted. 

"  Whether  she  can  have  run,"  said  Uncle  Sol,  looking  wist- 
fully over  the  chart  ;  "  but  no,  that's  almost  impossible.  Or 
whether  she  can  have  been  forced  by  stress  of  weather —  ut 
that's  not  reasonably  likely.  Or  whether  there  is  any  hope 
she  so  far  changed  her  course  as — but  even  I  can  hardly  hope 
that !  "  With  such  broken  suggestions,  poor  old  Uncle  Sol 
roamed  over  the  great  sheet  before  him,  and  could  not  find 
a  speck  of  hopeful  probability  in  it  large  enough  to  set  one 
small  point  of  the  compasses  upon. 

Florence  saw  immediately — it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
help  seeing — that  there  was  a  singular  indescribable  change 
in  the  old  man,  and  that  while  his  manner  was  far  more  rest- 
less and  unsettled  than  usual,  there  was  yet  a  curious,  con- 
tradictory decision  in  it  that  perplexed  her  very  much.  She 
fancied  once  that  he  spoke  wildly  and  at  random  ;  for  on  her 
saying  she  regretted  not  to  have  seen  him  when  she  had  been 
there  before  that  morning,  he  at  first  replied  that  he  had  been 
to  see  her,  and  directly  afterward  seemed  to  wish  to  recall 
that  answer. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  me  ?  "  said  Florence.     "  To-day  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear  young  lady,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  looking 
at  her  and  away  from  her  in  a  confused  manner.  "  I  wished 
to  see  you  with  my  ov\-n  eyes,  and  to  hear  you  with  my  own 
ears,  once  more  before — "     There  he  stopped. 

"  Before  when  ?  Before  what  ?  "  said  Florence,  putting 
her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  Did  I  say  '  before '  ? "  replied  old  Sol.  "  If  I  did  I  must 
have  meant  before  we  should  have  news  of  my  dear  boy." 

''You  are  not  well,"  said  Florence,  tenderly.  "  You  have 
been  so  very  anxious.      I  am  sure  you  are  not  well." 

''  I  am  as  well,"    returned  the  old    man,  shutting   up    his 


344  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

right  hand,  and  holding  it  out  to  show  her  ;  "  as  well  and 
firm  as  any  man  at  my  time  of  life  can  hope  to  be.  See  ! 
It's  steady.  Is  its  master  not  as  capable  of  resolution  and  for- 
titude as  many  a  younger  man  ?    I  think  so.     We  shall  see." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  more  than  in  his  words, 
though  they  remained  with  her  too,  which  impressed 
Florence  so  much,  that  she  would  have  confided  her  uneasi- 
ness to  Captain  Cuttle  at  that  moment,  if  the  captain  had  not 
seized  that  moment  for  expounding  the  state  of  circum- 
stances on  which  the  opinion  of  the  sagacious  Bunsby  was 
requested,  and  entreating  that  profound  authority  to  deliver 
the  same. 

Bunsby,  whose  eye  continued  to  be  addressed  to  some- 
where about  the  half-way  house  between  London  and  Graves- 
end,  two  or  three  times  put  out  his  rough  right  arm,  as  seek- 
ing to  wind  it,  for  inspiration,  round  the  fair  form  of  Miss 
Nipper  ;  but  that  young  female  having  withdrawn  herself  in 
displeasure  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  table,  the  soft  heart  of 
the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara  met  with  no  response 
to  its  impulses.  After  sundry  failures  in  this  wise,  the  com- 
mander, addressing  himself  to  nobody,  thus  spake  ;  or  rather 
the  voice  within  him  said  of  its  own  accord  and  quite  inde- 
pendent of  himself,  as  if  he  were  possessed  by  a  gruff  spirit  : 

*'  My  name's  Jack  Bunsby  !  " 

"  He  was  christened  John,"  cried  the  delighted  Captain 
Cuttle.     ''  Hear  him  !  " 

"  And  what  I  says,"  pursued  the  voice,  after  some  delib- 
eration,  ''  I  stands  to." 

The  captain,  with  Florence  on  his  arm,  nodded  at  the 
auditory,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Now  he's  coming  out.  This 
is  what  I  meant  when  I  brought  him." 

"  Wheieby,"  proceeded  the  voice,  "  why  not  ?  If  so,  what 
odds  ?     Can   any  man  say  otherwise  ?     No.     Awast   then  !  " 

When  it  had  pursued  its  train  of  argument  to  this  point, 
the  voice  stopped,  and  rested.  It  then  proceeded  very 
slowlv,  thus  : 

"  Do  I  believe  that  this  here  Son  afidHcirs  gone  down, 
my  lads  ?  Mayhap.  Do  I  say  so  ?  Which  ?  If  a  skipper 
stands  out  by  Sen'  George's  Channel,  making  for  the  Downs, 
what's  right  ahead  of  him  ?  The  Goodwins.  He  isn't 
forced  to  run  upon  the  Goodwins,  but  he  may.  The  bearings 
of  this  observation  lays  in  the  application  on  it.  That  ain't 
no  part  of  my  duty.  Awast  then,  keep  a  bright  look-out 
for'ard,  and  good  luck  to  you  !  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  345 

The  voice  here  went  out  of  the  back  parlor  and  into  the 
street,  taking  the  commander  of  the  Cautious  Clara  with  it, 
and  accompanying  him  on  board  again  with  all  convenient 
expedition,  where  he  immediately  turned  in,  and  refreshed 
his  mind  with  a  nap. 

The  students  of  the  sage's  precepts,  left  to  their  own 
application  of  his  wisdom  upon  a  principle  which  was  the 
main  leg  of  the  Bunsby  tripod,  as  it  is  perchance  of  some 
other  oracular  stools — looked  upon  one  another  in  a  little 
uncertainty  ;  while  Rob  the  Grinder,  who  had  taken  the  inno- 
cent freedom  of  peering  in  and  listening,  through  the  sky- 
light in  the  roof,  came  softly  down  from  the  leads  in  a  state 
of  very  dense  confusion.  Captain  Cuttle,  however,  whose 
admiration  of  Bunsby  was,  if  possible,  enhanced  by  the 
splendid  manner  in  which  he  had  justified  his  reputation  and 
come  through  this  solemn  reference,  proceeded  to  explain 
that  Bunsby  had  no  misgivings  ;  and  that  such  an  opinion 
as  that  man  had  given,  coming  from  such  a  mind  as  his,  was 
Hope's  own  anchor,  with  good  roads  to  cast  it  in.  Florence 
endeavored  to  believe  that  the  captain  was  right  ;  but  the 
Nipper,  with  her  arms  tight  folded,  shook  her  head  in  reso- 
lute denial,  and  had  no  more  trust  in  Bunsby  than  in  Mr. 
Perch  himself. 

The  philosopher  seemed  to  have  left  Uncle  Sol  pretty 
much  about  where  he  had  found  him,  for  he  still  went  roam- 
ing about  the  watery  world,  compasses  in  hand,  and  discov- 
ering no  rest  for  them.  It  was  in  pursuance  of  a  whisper  in 
his  ear  from  Florence,  while  the  old  man  was  absorbed  in 
this  pursuit,  that  Captain  Cuttle  laid  his  heavy  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"  What  cheer,  Sol  Gills  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  heartily. 

"  But  so-so,  Ned,"  returned  the  instrument-maker.  "I 
have  been  remembering,  all  this  afternoon,  that  on  the  very 
day  when  my  boy  entered  Dombey's  house  and  came  home 
late  to  dinner,  sitting  just  where  you  stand,  we  talked  of 
storm  and  shipwreck,  and  I  could  hardly  turn  him  from  the 
subject." 

But  meeting  the  eyes  of  Florence,  which  were  fixed  with 
earnest  scrutiny  upon  his  face,  the  old  man  stopped  and 
smiled. 

"  Stand  by,  old  friend  !  "  cried  the  captain.  *'  Look  alive  ! 
I  tell  you  what,  Sol  Gills  ;  arter  I've  convoyed  Heart's-de- 
light  safe  home,"  here  the  captain  kissed  his  hook  to  Flor- 
ence, "  I'll  come  back  and  take  vou  in  tow  for  the  rest  of 


346  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

this  blessed  day.  You'll  come  and  eat  your  dinner  along 
with  me,  Sol,  somewhere  or  another." 

"  Not  to-day,  Ned  !  "  said  the  old  man,  quickly,  and  ap- 
pearing to  be  unaccountably  startled  by  the  proposition. 
"  Not  to-day.     I  couldn't  do'it  !" 

"  Why  not  !  "  returned  the  captain,  gazing  at  him  in  as- 
tonishment. 

'*  I — I  have  too  much  to  do.  I — I  mean  to  think  of,  and 
arrange.  I  couldn't  do  it,  Ned,  indeed.  I  must  go  out 
again,  and  be  alone,  and  turn  my  mind  to  many  things  to- 
day." 

The  captain  looked  at  the  instrument-maker,  and  looked 
at  Florence,  and  again  at  the  instrument-maker.  "  To-mor- 
row, then,"  he  suggested,  at  last.- 

"  Yes,  yes.  To-morrow,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Think  of 
me  to-morrow.     Say  to-morrow." 

"  I  shall  come  here  early,  mind,  Sol  Gills,"  stipulated  the 
captain. 

"Yes,  yes.  The  first  thing  to-morrow  morning,"  said  old 
Sol  ;  "  and  now   good-by,  Ned  Cuttle,  and  God  bless  you  !" 

Squeezing  both  the  captain's  hands,  with  uncommon 
fervor,  as  he  said  it,  the  old  man  turned  to  Florence,  folded 
hers  in  his  own,  and  put  them  to  his  lips  ;  then  hurried  her 
out  to  the  coach  with  very  singular  precipitation.  Alto- 
gether, he  made  such  an  effect  on  Captain  Cuttle  that  the 
captain  lingered  behind,  and  instructed  Rob  to  be  partic- 
ularly gentle  and  attentive  to  his  master  until  the  morning, 
which  injunction  he  strengthened  with  the  payment  of  one 
shilling  down,  and  the  promise  of  another  sixpence  before 
noon  next  day.  This  kind  office  performed,  Captain  Cuttle, 
who  considered  himself  the  natural  and  lawful  body-guard 
of  Florence,  mounted  the  box  with  a  mighty  sense  of  his 
trust,  and  escorted  her  home.  At  parting,  he  assured  her 
that  he  would  stand  by  Sol  Gills,  close  and  true  ;  and  once 
again  inquired  of  Susan  Nipper,  unable  to  forget  her  gallant 
words  in  reference  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  Would  you,  do 
you  think,  my  dear,  though  !  " 

When  the  desolate  house  had  closed  upon  the  two,  the 
captain's  thoughts  reverted  to  the  old  instrument-maker, 
and  he  felt  uncomfortable.  Therefore,  instead  of  going 
home,  he  walked  up  and  down  the  street  several  times,  and, 
eking  out  his  leisure  until  evening,  dined  late  at  a  certain 
angular  little  tavern  in  the  city,  with  a  public  parlor  like  a 
wedge,  to  which  glazed  hats  much  resorted.     The  captain's 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  347 

principal  intention  was  to  pass  Sol  Gills's  after  dark,  and  look 
in  through  the  window,  which  he  did.  The  parlor  door 
stood  open,  and  he  could  see  his  old  friend  writing  busily 
and  steadily  at  the  table  within,  while  the  little  midshipman, 
already  sheltered  from  the  night  dews,  watched  him  from 
the  counter  ;  under  which  Rob  the  grinder  made  his  own 
bed,  preparatory  to  shutting  the  shop.  Re-assured  by  the 
tranquillity  that  reigned  within  the  precincts  of  the  wooden 
mariner,  the  captain  headed  for  Brig  Place,  resolving  to 
weigh  anchor  betimes  in  the  morning. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE    STUDY    OF    A     LOVING    HEART. 

Sir  Barnet  and  Lady  Skettles,  very  good  people,  resided 
in  a  pretty  villa  at  Fulham,  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames  ; 
which  was  one  of  the  most  desirable  residences  in  the  world 
when  a  rowing-match  happened  to  be  going  past,  but  had 
its  little  inconveniences  at  other  times,  among  which  maybe 
enumerated  the  occasional  appearance  of  the  river  in' the 
drawing-room,  and  the  contemporaneous  disappearance  of 
the  lawn  and  shrubbery. 

Sir  Barnet  Skettles  expressed  his  personal  consequence 
chiefly  through  an  antique  gold  snuff-box,  and  a  ponderous 
silk  pocket-handkerchief,  which  he  had  an  imposing  manner 
of  drawing  out  of  his  pocket  like  a  banner,  and  using  with 
both  hands  at  once.  Sir  Barnet's  object  in  life  was  con- 
stantly to  extend  the  range  of  his  acquaintance.  Like  a 
heavy  body  dropped  into  water — not  to  disparage  so  worthy 
a  gentleman  by  the  comparison — it  was  in  the  nature  of 
things  that  Sir  Barnet  must  spread  an  ever-widening  circle 
about  him,  until  there  was  no  room  left.  Or,  like  a  sound 
in  air,  the  vibration  of  which,  according  to  the  speculation 
of  an  ingenious  modern  philosopher,  may  go  on  traveling 
forever  through  the  interminable  fields  of  space,  nothing 
but  coming  to  the  end  of  his  moral  tether  could  stop  Sir 
Barnet  Skettles  in  his  voyage  of  discovery  through  the  social 
system. 

Sir  Barnet  was  proud  of  making  people  acquainted  with 
people.  He  liked  the  thing  for  its  own  sake,  and  it  ad- 
vanced his  favorite  object,  too.  For  example,  if  Sir  Barnet 
had  the  good  fortune  to  get  hold  of  a  raw  recruit,  or  a  coun- 


348  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

try  gentleman,  and  ensnared  him  to  his  hospitable  villa,  Sir 
Barnet  would  say  to  him,  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival, 
"  Now,  my  dear  sir,  is  there  any  body  you  would  like  to 
know  ?  Who  is  there  you  would  wish  to  meet  ?  Do  you 
take  any  interest  in  writing  people,  or  in  painting  or  sculptur- 
ing people,  or  in  acting  people,  or  in  any  thing  of  that  sort  ? " 
Possibly  the  patient  answered  yes,  and  mentioned  somebody, 
of  whom  Sir  Barnet  had  no  more  personal  knowledge  than 
of  Ptolemy  the  Great.  Sir  Barnet  replied,  that  nothing  on 
earth  was  easier,  as  he  knew  him  very  well  ;  immediately 
called  on  the  aforesaid  somebody,  left  his  card,  wrote  a  short 
note, — "  My  dear  sir — penalty  of  your  eminent  position — 
friend  at  my  house  naturally  desirous — Lady  Skettles  and 
myself  participate — trust  that  genius  being  superior  to  cer- 
emonies, you  will  do  us  the  distinguished  favor  of  giving  us 
the  pleasure,"  etc.,  etc. — and  so  killed  a  brace  of  birds  with 
one  stone,  dead  as  door-nails. 

With  the  snuff-box  and  banner  in  full  force.  Sir  Barnet 
Skettles  propounded  his  usual  inquiry  to  Florence  on  the 
first  morning  of  her  visit.  When  Florence  thanked  him, 
and  said  there  was  no  one  in  particular  whom  she  desired  to 
see,  it  was  natural  she  should  think  with  a  pang  of  poor  lost 
Walter.  When  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  urging  his  kind  offer, 
said,  "  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  are  you  sure  you  can  remem- 
ber no  one  whom  your  good  papa — to  whom  I  beg  you  to 
present  the  best  compliments  of  myself  and  Lady  Skettles 
Avhen  you  write — might  wish  you  to  know  ?  "  it  was  natural, 
perhaps,  that  her  poor  head  should  droop  a  little,  and  that 
her  voice  should  tremble  as  it  softly  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive. 

Skettles  Junior,  much  stiffened  as  to  his  cravat,  and 
sobered  down  as  to  his  spirits,  was  at  home  for  the  holidays, 
and  appeared  to  feel  himself  aggrieved  by  the  solicitude  of 
his  excellent  mother  that  he  should  be  attentive  to  Florence. 
Another  and  a  deeper  injury  under  which  the  sou]  of  young 
Barnet  chafed,  was  the  company  of  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Blimber, 
who  had  been  invited  on  a  visit  to  the  paternal  roof-tree, 
and  of  whom  the  young  gentleman  often  said  he  \yould  have 
preferred  their  passing  the  vacation  at  Jericho, 

"  Is  there  any  body  jv;?/  can  suggest,  now,  Doctor  Blimber  ?" 
said  Sir  Barnet  Skettles,  turning  to  that  gentleman. 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Sir  Barnet,"  returned  Doctor  Blim- 
ber. *'  Really,  I  am  not  aware  that  there  is,  in  particular. 
[  like  to  know  my  fellow-men  in  general.  Sir  Barnet.     What 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  349 

does  Terence  say  ?  Any  one  who  is  the  parent  of  a  son  is 
interesting  to  me.'' 

''  Has  Mrs.  Blimber  any  wish  to  see  any  remarkable  per- 
son ? "  asked  Sir  Barnet,  courteously. 

Mrs.  Blimber  replied,  with  a  sweet  smile  and  a  shake  of 
her  sky-blue  cap,  that  if  Sir  Barnet  could  have  made  her 
known  to  Cicero,  she  would  have  troubled  him  ;  but  such  an 
introduction  not  being  feasible,  and  she  already  enjoying  the 
friendship  of  himself  and  his  amiable  lady;  and  possessing 
with  the  doctor  her  husband  their  joint  confidence  in  re- 
gard to  their  dear  son — here  young  Barnet  was  observed  to 
curl  his  nose — she  asked  no  more. 

Sir  Barnet  was  fain,  under  these  circumstances,  to  con- 
tent himself  for  the  time  with  the  company  assembled. 
Florence  was  glad  of  that  ;  for  she  had  a  study  to  pursue 
among  them,  and  it  lay  too  near  her  heart,  and  was  too  pre- 
cious and  momentous,  to  yield  to  any  other  interest. 

There  were  some  children  staying  in  the  house.  Children 
who  were  as  frank  and  happy  with  fathers  and  with  mothers 
as  those  rosy  faces  opposite  home.  Children  who  had  no 
restraint  upon  their  love,  and  freely  showed  it.  Florence 
sought  to  learn  their  secret  ;  sought  to  find  out  what  it  was 
she  had  missed  ;  what  simple  art  they  knew,  and  she  knew 
not  ;  how  she  could  be  taught  by  them  to  show  her  father 
that  she  loved  him,  and  to  win  his  love  again. 

Many  a  day  did  Florence  thoughtfully  observe  these  chil- 
dren. On  many  a  bright  morning  did  she  leave  her  bed  when 
the  glorious  sun  rose,  and  walking  up  and  down  upon  the  river's 
bank,  before  any  one  in  the  house  was  stirring,  look  up  at 
the  windows  of  their  rooms,  and  think  of  them,  asleep,  so 
gently  tended  and  affectionately  thought  of.  Florence  would 
feel  more  lonely  then  than  in  the  great  house  all  alone  ;  and 
would  think  sometimes  that  she  was  better  there  than  here, 
and  that  there  was  greater  peace  in  hiding  herself  than  in 
mingling  with  others  of  her  age,  and  finding  how  unlike 
them  all  she  was.  But  attentive  to  her  study,  though  it 
touched  her  to  the  quick  at  every  little  leaf  she  turned  in 
the  hard  book,  Florence  remained  among  them,  and  tried 
with  patient  hope,  to  gain  the  knowledge  that  she  v/earied  for. 

Ah  !  how  to  gain  it  !  how  to  know  the  charm  in  its  be- 
ginning !  There  were  daughters  here,  who  rose  up  in  the 
morning  and  lay  down  to  rest  at  night,  possessed  of  fathers' 
hearts  already.  They  had  no  repulse  to  overcome,  no  cold- 
ness to  dread,  no  frown  to  smooth  away.     As  the  morning 


350  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

advanced,  and  the  windows  opened  one  by  one,  and  the  dew 
began  to  dry  upon  the  flowers  and  grass,  and  youthful  feet 
began  to  move  upon  the  lawn,  Florence,  glancing  round  at 
the  bright  faces,  thought  what  was  there  she  could  learn 
from  these  children  ?  It  was  too  late  to  learn  from  them  ; 
each  could  approach  her  father  fearlessly,  and  put  up  her 
lips  to  meet  the  ready  kiss,  and  wind  her  arm  about  the 
neck  that  bent  down  to  caress  her.  She  could  not  begin  by 
being  so  bold.  Oh  !  could  it  be  that  there  was  less  and  less 
hope  as  she  studied  more  and  more  ! 

She  remembered  well,  that  even  the  old  woman  who  had 
robbed  her  when  a  little  child — whose  image  and  whose 
house,  and  all  she  had  said  and  done,  were  stamped  upon 
her  recollection  with  the  enduring  sharpness  of  a  fearful  im- 
pression made  at  that  early  period  of  life — had  spoken  fondly 
of  her  daughter,  and  how  terribly  even  she  had  cried  out  in 
the  pain  of  hopeless  separation  from  her  child.  But  her 
own  mother,  she  would  think  again,  when  she  recalled  this, 
had  loved  her  well.  Then,  sometimes,  when  her  thoughts 
reverted  swiftly  to  the  void  between  herself  and  her  father, 
Florence  would  tremble,  and  the  tears  would  start  upon  her 
face  as  she  pictured  to  herself  her  mother  living  on,  and 
coming  also  to  dislike  her,  because  of  her  wanting  the  un- 
known grace  that  should  conciliate  that  father  naturallv,  and 
had  never  done  so  from  her  cradle.  She  knew  that  this  im- 
agination did  wrong  to  her  mother's  memory,  and  had  no 
truth  in  it,  or  base  to  rest  upon  ;  and  yet  she  tried  so  hard 
to  justify  him,  and  to  find  the  whole  blame  in  herself,  that 
she  could  not  resist  its  passing,  like  a  wild  cloud,  through 
the  distance  of  her  mind. 

There  came  among  the  other  visitors,  soon  after  Florence, 
one  beautiful  girl,  three  or  four  years  younger  than  she,  who 
was  an  orphan  child,  and  who  was  accompanied  by  her  aunt, 
a  gray-haired  lady,  who  spoke  much  to  Florence,  and  who 
greatly  liked  (but  that  they  all  did)  to  hear  her  sing  of  an 
evening,  and  would  always  sit  near  her  at  that  time,  with 
motherly  interest.  They  had  only  been  two  days  in  the 
house,  when  Florence,  being  in  an  arbor  in  the  garden  one 
warm  morning,  musingly  observant  of  a  youthful  group  upon 
the  turf,  through  some  intervening  boughs,  and  wreathing 
flowers  for  the  head  of  one  little  creature  among  them  who 
was  the  pet  and  plaything  of  the  rest,  heard  this  same  lady 
and  her  niece,  in  pacing  up  and  down  a  sheltered  nook  close 
by,  speak  of  herself. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  351 

"  Is  Florence  an  orphan  like  me,  aunt  ?  "  said  the  child. 

"No,  my  love.  She  has  no  mother,  but  her  father  is 
living." 

"  Is  she  in  mourning  for  her  poor  mamma  now  ?  "  in- 
quired the  child,  quickly. 

"  No  ;  for  her  only  brother." 

"  Has  she  no  other  brother." 

''None." 

"  No  sister  ?  " 

"None." 

"  I  am  very,  very  sorry  !  "  said  the  little  girl. 

As  they  stopped  soon  afterward  to  watch  some  boats,  and 
had  been  silent  in  the  mean  time,  Florence,  who  had  risen 
when  she  heard  her  name,  and  had  gathered  up  her  flowers 
to  go  and  meet  them,  that  they  might  know  of  her  being 
within  hearing,  resumed  her  seat  and  work,  expecting  to 
hear  no  more  ;  but  the  conversation  recommenced  next 
moment. 

"  Florence  is  a  favorite  with  every  one  here,  and  deserves 
to  be,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  child,  earnestly.  "Where  is  her 
papa?" 

The  aunt  replied,  after  a  moment's  pause,  that  she  did 
not  know.  Her  tone  of  voice  arrested  Florence,  who  had 
started  from  her  seat  again,  and  held  her  fastened  to  the 
spot,  with  her  work  hastily  caught  up  to  her  bosom,  and  her 
two  hands  saving  it  from  being  scattered  on  the  ground. 

"  He  is  in  England,  I  hope,  aunt? "  said  the  child. 

"I  believe  so.     Yes  ;  I  know  he  is,  indeed." 

'*  Has  he  ever  been  here  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not.     No." 

"  Is  he  coming  here  to  see  her  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  Is  he  lame,  or  blind,  or  ill,  aunt  ?  "  asked  the  child. 

The  flowers  that  Florence  held  to  her  breast  began  to  fall 
\vhen  she  heard  those  \\T)rds,  so  wonderingly  spoken.  She 
held  them  closer,  and  her  face  hung  down  upon  them. 

"  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  after  another  moment  of  silence, 
"  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth  about  Florence,  as  T  have 
heard  it  and  believe  it  to  be.  Tell  no  one  else,  my  dear, 
because  it  may  be  but  little  known  here,  and  your  doing  so 
would  give  her  pain." 

"  I  never  will  !  "  exclaimed  the  child. 

"  I  know  you  never  will,"  returned  the  lady.  "  I  can  trust 
you  as  myself.     I  fear   then,   Kate,  that  Florence's  father 


352  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cares  little  for  her,  very  seldom  sees  her,  never  was  kind  to 
her  in  her  life,  and  now  quite  shuns  her  and  avoids  her.  She 
would  love  him  dearly  if  he  would  suffer  her,  but  he  will  not 
— though  for  no  fault  of  hers  ;  and  she  is  greatly  to  be 
loved  and  pitied  by  all  gentle  hearts." 

More  of  the  flowers  that  Florence  held  fell  scattering  on 
the  ground  ;  those  that  remained  were  wet,  but  not  with 
dew  ;  and  her  face  dropped  upon  her  laden  hands. 

''  Poor  Florence  !  Dear,  good  Florence  !  "  cried  the 
child. 

"  Do  you  know  why  I  have  told  you  this,  Kate  ?  "  said 
the  lady. 

"  That  I  may  be  very  kind  to  her,  and  take  great  care  to 
try  to  please  her.     Is  that  the  reason,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Partly,"  said  the  lady,  ''  but  not  all.  Though  we  see 
her  so  cheerful  ;  with  a  pleasant  smile  for  every  one  ;  ready 
to  oblige  us  all,  and  bearing  her  part  in  every  amusement 
here  ;  she  can  hardly  be  quite  happv,  do  you  think  she  can, 
Kate?" 

^'  I  am  afraid  not,"  said  the  little  girl. 

"And  you  can  understand,"  pursued  the  lady,  "why  her 
observation  of  children  who  have  parents  who  are  fond  of 
them  and  proud  of  them — like  many  here,  just  now — should 
make  her  sorrowful  in  secret  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear  aunt,"  said  the  child.  "  I  understand  that  very 
well.     Poor  Florence  !  " 

More  flowers  strayed  upon  the  ground,  and  those  she  yet 
held  to  her  breast  trembled  as  if  a  wintry  wind  were  rustling 
them. 

"  My  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  serious,  but 
very  calm,  and  sweet,  and  had  so  impressed  Florence  from 
the  first  moment  of  her  hearing  it,  "  Of  all  the  youthful  peo- 
ple here,  you  are  her  natural  and  harmless  friend  ;  you  have 
not  the  innocent  means  that  happier  children  have — " 

"There  are  none  happier,  aunt«(  "  exclaimed  the  child, 
who  seemed  to  cling  about  her. 

— "  As  other  children  have,  dear  Kate,  of  reminding  her 
of  her  misfortune.  Therefore  I  would  have  you,  when  you 
try  to  be  her  little  friend,  try  all  the  more  for  that,  and  feel 
that  the  bereavement  you  sustained — thank  Heaven  !  before 
you  knew  its  weight — gives  you  claim  and  hold  upon  poor 
Florence." 

"  But  I  am  not  without  a  parent's  love,  aunt,  and  I  never 
have  been,"  said  the  child,  "  with  you." 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  353 

"  Ho'-^ever  that  may  be,  my  dear,"  returned  the  lady, 
'*  your  misfortune  is  a  lighter  one  than  Florence's  ;  for  not 
an  orphan  in  the  wide  world  can  be  so  deserted  as  the  child 
who  is  an  outcast  from  a  living  parent's  love." 

The  flowers  were  scattered  on  the  ground  like  dust  ;  the 
empty  hands  were  spread  upon  the  face  ;  and  orphaned 
Florence,  shrinking  down  upon  the  ground,  wept  long  and 
a^'^terly. 

But  true  of  heart  and  resolute  in  her  good  purpose,  Flor- 
ence held  to  it  as  her  dying  mother  held  by  her  upon  the  day 
that  gave  Paul  life.  He  did  not  know  how  much  she  loved 
him.  However  long  the  time  in  coming,  and  however  slow 
the  interval,  she  must  try  to  bring  that  knowledge  to  her 
father's  heart  one  day  or  other.  Meantime  she  must  be 
careful  in  no  thoughtless  word,  or  look,  or  burst  of  feeling 
awakened  by  any  chance  circumstance,  to  complain  against 
him,  or  to  give  occasion  for  these  whispers  to  his  prejudice. 

Even  in  the  response  she  made  to  the  orphan  child,  to 
whom  she  was  attracted  strongly,  and  whom  she  had  such 
occasion  to  remember,  Florence  was  mindful  of  him.  If  she 
singled  her  out  too  plainly  (Florence  thought)  from  among 
the  rest,  she  would  confirm — in  one  mind  certainly  ;  perhaps 
in  more — the  belief  that  she  was  cruel  and  unnatural.  Her 
own  delight  was  no  set-off  to  this.  What  she  had  overheard 
was  a  reason,  not  for  soothing  herself,  but  for  saving  him  ; 
and  Florence  did  it  in  pursuance  of  the  study  of  her  heart. 

She  did  so  always.  If  a  book  were  read  aloud,  and  there 
were  any  thing  in  the  story  that  pointed  at  an  unkind  father, 
she  was  in  pain  for  their  application  of  it  to  him  ;  not  for 
herself.  So  with  any  trifle  of  an  interlude  that  was  acted,-  or 
picture  that  was  shown,  or  game  that  was  played,  among 
them.  The  occasions  for  such  tenderness  toward  him  were 
so  many  that  her  mind  misgave  her  often,  it  would  indeed 
be  better  to  go  back  to  the  old  house,  and  live  again  within 
the  shadow  of  its  dull  walls,  undisturbed.  How  few  who 
saw  sweet  Florence  in  the  spring  of  her  womanhood,  the 
modest  little  queen  of  those  small  revels,  imagined  what  a 
load  of  sacred  care  lay  heavy  in  her  breast  !  How  few  of 
those  who  stiffened  in  her  father's  freezing  atmosphere  sus- 
pected what  a  heap  of  fiery  coals  was  piled  upon  his  head  ! 

Florence  pursued  her  study  patiently,  and,  failing  to 
acquire  the  secret  of  the  nameless  grace  she  sought  among 
the  youthful  company  who  were  assembled  in  the  house, 
often  walked  out  alone,  in  the  early  morning,  among  the 


354  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

children  of  the  poor.  But  still  she  found  them  all  too  far 
advanced  to  learn  from.  They  had  won  their  household 
places  long  ago,  and  did  not  stand  without,  as  she  did,  with 
a  bar  across  the  door. 

There  was  one  man  whom  she  several  times  observed  at 
work  very  early,  and  often  with  a  girl  of  about  her  own  age 
seated  near  him.  He  was  a  very  poor  man,  who  seemed  to 
have  no  regular  employment,  but  now  went  roaming  about 
the  banks  of  the  river  when  the  tide  was  low,  looking  out  for 
bits  and  scraps  in  the  mud  ;  and  now  worked  at  the  unprom- 
ising little  patch  of  garden-ground  before  his  cottage  ;  and 
now  tinkered  up  a  miserable  old  boat  that  belonged  to  him  ; 
or  did  some  job  of  that  kind  for  a  neighbor,  as  chance 
occurred.  Whatever  the  man's  labor,  the  girl  was  never 
employed  ;  but  sat,  when  she  was  with  him,  in  a  listless, 
moping  state,  and  idle. 

Florence  had  often  wished  to  speak  to  this  man  ;  yet  she 
had  never  courage  to  do  so,  as  he  made  no  movement 
toward  her.  But  one  morning  when  she  happened  to  come 
upon  him  suddenly  from  a  by-path  among  some  pollard  wil- 
lows which  terminated  in  the  little  shelving  piece  of  stony 
ground  that  lay  between  his  dwelling  and  the  water,  where 
he  was  bending  over  a  fire  he  had  made  to  calk  the  old  boat 
which  was  lying  bottom  upward,  close  by,  he  raised  his 
head  at  the  sound  of  her  footstep,  and  gave  her  good-morn- 
ing. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Florence,  approaching  nearer, 
^'you  are  at  work  early." 

"  I'd  be  glad  to  be  at  work  earlier,  miss,  if  I  had  work,  to 
do." 

"  Is  it  so  hard  to  get  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

**/find  it  so,"  replied  the  man. 

Florence  glanced  to  where  the  girl  was  sitting,  drawn 
together,  with  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and  her  chin  on  her 
hands,  and  said  : 

"  Is  that  your  daughter  ?  " 

He  raised  his  head  quickly,  and  looking  toward  the  girl 
with  a  brightened  face,  nodded  to  her,  and  said  "Yes." 
Florence  looked  toward  her  too,  and  gave  her  a  kind  saluta- 
tion ;  the  girl  muttered  something  in  return,  ungraciously 
and  sullenly. 

"  Is  she  in  want  of  employment  also  ?  "  said  Florence. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,  miss,"  he  said.  "  I  work 
(or  both." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  355 

**  Are  there  only  you  two,  tlien  ?  "  inquired  Florence. 

"Only  us  two,"  said  the  man.  "Her  mother  has  been 
dead  these  ten  year.  Martha  !  "  (he  lifted  up  his  head  again, 
and  whistled  to  her)  "  won't  you  say  a  word  to  the  pretty 
young  lady  ? " 

The  girl  made  an  impatient  gesture  with  her  cowering 
shoulders,  and  turned  her  head  another  way.  Ugly,  mis- 
shapen, peevish,  ill-conditioned,  ragged,  dirty — but  beloved  I 
Oh  yes  !  Florence  had  seen  her  father's  look  toward  her, 
and  she  knew  whose  look  it  had  no  likeness  to. 

"  I'm  afraid  she's  worse  this  morning,  my  poor  girl  !  " 
said  the  man,  suspending  his  work,  and  contemplating  his 
ill-favored  child  with  a  compassion  that  was  more  tender  for 
being  rough. 

"  She  is  ill,  then  ;  "  said  Florence. 

The  man  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "  I  don't  believe  my  Mar- 
tha's had  five  short  days'  good  health,"  he  answered,  looking 
at  her  still,  "  in  as  many  long  years." 

"  Ay  !  and  more  than  that,  John,"  said  a  neighbor,  who 
had  come  down  to  help  him  with  the  boat. 

"More  than  that,  you  say,  do  you?"  cried  the  other, 
pushing  back  his  battered  hat,  and  drawing  his  hand  across 
his  forehead.     "Very  like.     It  seems  a  long,  long  time." 

"And  the  more  the  time,"  pursued  the  neighbor,  "the 
more  you've  favored  and  humored  her,  John,  'till  she's  got 
to  be  a  burden  to  herself  and  every  body  else." 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  her  father,  falling  to  his  work  again. 
"  Not  to  me." 

Florence  could  feel — who  better? — how  truly  bespoke. 
She  drew  a  little  closer  to  him,  and  would  have  been  glad  to 
touch  his  ragged  hand,  and  thank  him  for  his  goodness  to 
the  miserable  object  that  he  looked  upon  with  eyes  so  differ- 
ent from  any  other  man's. 

"  Who  would  favor  my  poor  girl — to  call  it  favoring — if  / 
didn't  ?  "  said  the  father. 

"Ay,  ay,"  cried  the  neighbor.  "In  reason,  John.  But 
you  !  You  rob  yourself  to  give  to  her.  You  bind  yourseK 
hand  and  foot  on  her  account.  You  make  your  life  miser- 
able along  of  her.  And  what  does  s/ie  care  ?  You  don't 
believe  she  knows  it  ?  " 

The  father  lifted  up  his  head  again,  and  whistled  to  her. 
Martha  made  the  same  impatient  gesture  with  her  crouch- 
ing shoulders,  in  reply  ;  and  he  was  glad  and  happy. 

"  Only  for  that,  miss,"  said  the  neighbor,  with  a  smile,  in 


356  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

which  there  was  more  of  secret  sympathy  than  he  expressed, 
"  only  to  get  that,  he  never  lets  her  out  of  his  sight  !  " 

"  Because  the  day'll  come,  and  has  been  coming  a  long 
while,"  observed  the  other,  bending  low  over  his  work, 
"  when  to  get  half  as  much  from  that  unfort'nate  child  of 
mine — to  get  the  trembling  of  a  finger,  or  the  waving  of  a 
hair — would  be  to  raise  the  dead." 

Florence  softly  put  some  money  near  his  hand  on  the  old 
boat,  and  left  him. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  think,  if  she  were  to  fail  ill,  if 
she  were  to  fade  like  her  dear  brother,  would  he  then  know 
that  she  had  loved  him  ;  would  she  then  grow  dear  to  him, 
would  he  come  to  her  bedside,  when  she  was  weak,  and  dim 
of  sight,  and  take  her  into  his  embrace,  and  cancel  all  the 
past  ?  Would  he  so  forgive  her,  in  that  changed  condition, 
for  not  having  been  able  to  lay  open  her  childish  heart  to 
him,  as  to  make  it  easy  to  relate  with  what  emotions  she  had 
gone  out  of  his  room  that  night ;  what  she  had  meant  to  say 
if  she  had  had  the  courage  ;  and  how  she  had  endeavored, 
afterward,  to  learn  the  way  she  never  knew  in  infancy  ? 

Yes,  she  thought  if  she  were  dying,  he  would  relent.  She 
thought,  that  if  she  lay,  serene  and  not  unwilling  to  depart, 
upon  the  bed  that  was  curtained  round  with  the  recollections 
of  their  darling  boy,  he  would  be  touched  home,  and  would 
say,  "  Dear  Florence,  live  for  me,  and  we  will  love  each 
other  as  we  might  have  done,  and  be  as  happy  as  we  might 
have  been  these  many  years  !  "  She  thought  that  if  she 
heard  such  words  from  him,  and  had  her  arms  clasped  round 
him,  she  could  answer  with  a  smile,  "  It  is  too  late  for  any 
thing  but  this  ;  I  never  could  be  happier,  dear  father  ! " 
and  so  leave  him,  with  a  blessing  on  her  lips. 

The  golden  water  she  remembered  on  the  wall  appeared 
to  Florence,  in  the  light  of  such  reflections,  only  as  a  current 
flowing  on  to  rest,  and  to  a  region  where  the  dear  ones,  gone 
before,  were  waiting,  hand  in  hand  ;  and  often,  when  she 
looked  upon  the  darker  river  rippling  at  her  feet,  she 
thought  with  awful  wonder,  but  not  terror,  of  that  river 
which  her  brother  had  so  often  said  was  bearing  him  away. 

The  father  and  his  sick  daughter  were  yet  fresh  in  Flor- 
ence's mind,  and,  indeed,  that  incident  was  not  a  week  old, 
when  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  going  out  walking  in  the  lanes 
one  afternoon,  proposed  to  her  to  bear  them  company. 
Florence  readily  consenting,  Lady  Skettles  ordered  out 
young  Barnet  as  a  matter  of  course.     For  nothing  delighted 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  357 

Lady  Skettles  so  much  as  beholding  her  eldest  son  with  Flor- 
ence on  his  arm. 

Barnet,  to  say  the  truth,  appeared  to  entertain  an  opposite 
sentiment  on  the  subject,  and  on  such  occasions  frequently 
expressed  himself  audibly,  though  indefinitely,  in  reference 
to  "  a  parcel  of  girls."  As  it  was  not  easy  to  ruffle  her  sweet 
temper,  however,  Florence  generally  reconciled  the  young 
gentleman  to  his  fate  after  a  few  minutes,  and  they  strolled 
on  amicably  ;  Lady  Skettles  and  Sir  Barnet  following  in  a 
state  of  perfect  complacency  and  high  gratification. 

This  was  the  order  of  procedure  during  the  afternoon  in 
question ;  and  Florence  had  almost  succeeded  in  overruling 
the  present  objections  of  Skettles  junior  to  his  destiny,  when 
a  gentleman  on  horseback  came  riding  by,  looked  at  them 
earnestly  as  he  passed,  drew  in  his  rein,  wheeled  round,  and 
came  riding  back  again,  hat  in  hand. 

The  gentleman  had  looked  particularly  at  Florence  ;  and 
when  the  little  party  stopped,  on  his  riding  back,  he  bowed 
to  her,  before  saluting  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady.  Florence 
had  no  remembrance  of  having  ever  seen  him,  but  she 
started  involuntarily  when  he  came  near  her,  and  drew 
back. 

"  My  horse  is  perfectly  quiet,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman. 

It  was  not  that,  but  something  in  the  gentleman  himself 
— Florence  could  not  have  said  what — that  made  her  recoil 
as  if  she  had  been  stung. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Miss  Dombey,  I  believe  ?  " 
said  the  gentleman,  with  a  most  persuasive  smile.  On  Flor- 
ence inclining  her  head,  he  added,  "  My  name  is  Carker.  I 
can  hardly  hope  to  be  remembered  by  INliss  Dombey,  except 
by  name.     Carker." 

Florence,  sensible  of  a  strange  inclination  to  shiver, 
though  the  day  was  hot,  presented  him  to  her  host  and 
hostess  ;  by  whom  he  was  very  graciously  received. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  a  thousand  times  ! 
But  I  am  going  down  to-morrow  morning  to  Mr.  Dombey, 
at  Leamington,  and  if  Miss  Dombey  can  entrust  me  with 
any  commission,  need  I  say  how  very  happy  I  shall  be  ?" 

Sir  Barnet  immediately  divining  that  Florence  would 
desire  to  write  a  letter  to  her  father,  proposed  to  return,  and 
besought  Mr.  Carker  to  come  home  and  dine  in  his  riding 
gear.  Mr.  Carker  had  the  misfortune  to  be  engaged  to  din- 
ner^  but  if  Miss  Dombey  wished  to  write,   nothing  would 


358  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

delight  him  more  than  to  accompany  them  back,  and  to  be 
her  faithful  slave  in  waiting  as  long  as  she  pleased.  As  he 
said  this  with  his  widest  smile,  and  bent  down  close  to  her 
to  pat  his  horse's  neck,  Florence  meeting  his  eyes,  saw^, 
rather  than  heard  him  say,  "  There  is  no  news  of  the  ship  !  " 

Confused,  frightened,  shrinking  from  him,  and  not  even 
sure  that  he  had  said  those  words,  for  he  seemed  to  have 
shown  them  to  her  in  some  extraordinary  manner  through 
his  smile,  instead  of  uttering  them,  Florence  faintly  said  that 
she  was  obliged  to  him,  but  she  would  not  write  ;  she  had 
nothing  to  say. 

"  Nothing  to  send.  Miss  Dom.bey  ?  "  said  the  man  of 
teeth. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Florence,  "  but  my — but  my  dear  love — 
if  you  please." 

Disturbed  as  Florence  was,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face 
with  an  imploring  and  expressive  look,  that  plainly  besought 
him,  if  he  knew — which  he  as  plainly  did — that  any  mes- 
sage between  her  and  her  father  was  an  uncommon  charge, 
but  that  one  most  of  all,  to  spare  her.  Mr.  Carker  smiled 
and  bowed  low,  and  being  charged  by  Sir  Barnet  with  the 
best  compliments  of  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  took  his 
leave  and  rode  away  ;  leaving  a  favorable  impression  on 
that  worthy  couple.  Florence  was  seized  with  such  a 
shudder  as  he  went,  that  Sir  Barnet,  adopting  the  popular 
superstition,  supposed  somebody  was  passing  over  her  grave. 
Mr.  Carker,  turning  a  corner  on  the  instant,  looked  back, 
and  bowed,  and  disappeared,  as  if  he  rode  off  to  the  church- 
yard straight  to  do  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

STRANGE   NEWS   OF     UNCLE   SOL. 

Captain  Cuttle,  though  no  sluggard,  did  not  turn  out  so 
early  on  the  morning  after  he  had  seen  Sol  Gills,  through 
the  shop-window,  writing  in  the  parlor,  with  the  midshipman 
upon  the  counter,  and  Rob  the  Grinder  making  up  his  bed 
below  it,  but  that  the  clocks  struck  six  as  he  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow,  and  took  a  survey  of  his  little  chamber.  The 
captain's  eyes  must  have  done  severe  duty,  if  he  opened 
them  as  wide  on  awakening,  as  he  did  that  morning  ;  and 
were  but  roughly  rewarded  for  their  vigilance,  if  he  gener- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  359 

ally  rubbed  them  half  as  hard.  But  the  occasion  was  no 
common  one,  for  Rob  the  Grinder  had  certainly  never  stood 
in  the  door-way  of  Captain  Cuttle's  bedroom  before,  and  in 
it  he  stood  then  panting  at  the  captain,  with  a  flushed  and 
touzled  air  of  bed  about  him  that  greatly  heightened  both 
his  color  and  expression. 

"Halloo!"    roared  the  captain.     "What's  the  matter?" 

Before  Rob  could  stammer  a  word  in  answer.  Captain 
Cuttle  turned  out,  all  in  a  heap,  and  covered  the  boy's 
mouth  with  his  hand. 

"  Steady,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  ;  "  don't  ye  speak  a 
word  to  me  as  yet  !  " 

The  captain,  looking  at  his  visitor  in  great  consternation, 
gently  shouldered  him  into  the  next  room,  after  laying  this 
injunction  upon  him  ;  and  disappearing  for  a  few  moments, 
forthwith  returned  in  the  blue  suit.  Holding  up  his  hand  in 
token  of  the  injunction  not  yet  being  taken  off,  Captain 
Cuttle  walked  up  to  the  cupboard  and  poured  himself  out  a 
dram — a  counterpart  of  which  he  handed  to  the  messenger. 
The  captain  then  stood  himself  up  in  a  corner,  against  the 
wall,  as  if  to  forestall  the  possibility  of  being  knocked  back 
ward  by  the  communication  that  was  to  be  made  to  him  ; 
and  having  swallowed  his  liquor  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
messenger,  and  his  face  as  pale  as  his  face  could  be, 
requested  him  to  "  heave  ahead." 

"  Do  you  mean,  tell  you,  captain  ? "  asked  Rob  who  had 
been  greatly  impressed  by  these  precautions. 

"  Ay  !  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Rob,  "  I  ain't  got  much  to  tell.  But 
look  here  !  " 

Rob  produced  a  bundle  of  keys.  The  captain  surveyed 
them,  remained  in  his  corner,  and  surveyed  the  messen- 
ger. 

"  And  look  here  !  "  pursued  Rob. 

The  boy  produced  a  sealed  packet,  which  Captain  Cuttle 
stared  at  as  he  had  stared  at  the  keys. 

"When  I  woke  this  morning,  captain,  said  Rob,  "which 
was  about  a  quarter  after  five,  I  found  these  on  my  pillow. 
The  shop-door  was  unbolted  and  unlocked,  and  Mr.  Gills 
gone." 

"  Gone  !  "  roared  the  captain. 

"Flowed,   sir,"  returned   Rob. 

The  captain's  voice  was  so  tremendous,  and  he  came  out 
of  his   corner  with  such    way   on   him,   that  Rob   retreated 


36o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

before  him  into  another  corner  ;  holding  out   the  keys  and 
packet,  to  prevent  himself  from  being  run  down. 

"'  For  Captain  Cuttle,'  sir,"  cried  Rob,  "is  on  the  keys, 
and  upon  the  packet  too.  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  I  don't  know  any  thing  more  about  it.  I  wish 
I  may  die  if  I  do  !  Here's  a  sitiwation  for  a  lad  that's  just 
got  a  sitiwation  !  "  cried  the  unfortunate  Grinder,  screwing 
his  cuff  into  his  face  ;  "  his  master  bolted  with  his  place, 
and  him  blamed  for  it  !  " 

These  lamentations  had  reference  to  Captain  Cuttle's 
gaze,  or  rather  glare,  which  was  full  of  vague  suspicions, 
threatenings,  and  denunciations.  Taking  the  proffered 
packet  from  his  hand,  the  captain  opened  it,  and  read  as 
follows  : 

"  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  Inclosed  is  my  will  !  "  the  cap- 
tain turned  it  over,  with  a  doubtful  look — "  and  tetstament. 
— Where's  the  testament?"  said  the  captain,  instantly 
impeaching  the  ill-fated  Grinder.  *'  What  have  you  done 
with  that,  my  lad?" 

"  /  never  see  it,"  whimpered  Rob.  "  Don't  keep  on  sus- 
pecting an  innocent  lad,  captain.  /  never  touched  the 
testament." 

Captain  Cuttle  shook  his  head,  implying  that  somebody 
must  be  made  answerable  for  it  ;  and  gravely  proceeded  : 

''  Which  don't  break  open  for  a  year,  or  until  you  have 
decisive  intelligence  of  my  dear  Walter,  who  is  dear  to  you, 
Ned,  too,  I  am  sure."  The  captain  paused  and  shook  his 
head  in  some  emotion  ;  then,  as  a  re-establishment  of  his 
dignity  in  this  trying  position,  looked  with  exceeding  stern- 
ness at  the  Grinder.  "  If  you  should  never  hear  of  me,  or 
see  me  more,  Ned,  remember  an  old  friend  as  he  will 
remember  you  to  the  last — kindly  ;  and  at  least  until  the 
period  I  have  mentioned  has  expired,  keep  a  home  in  the 
old  place  for  Walter,  There  are  no  debts,  the  loan  from 
Dombey's  house  is  paid  off,  and  all  my  keys  I  send  with 
this.  Keep  this  quiet,  and  make  no  inquiry  for  me  ;  it  is 
useless.  So  no  more,  dear  Ned,  from  your  true  friend, 
Solomon  Gills  "  The  captain  took  a  long  breath,  and  then 
read  these  words,  written  below  :  " '  The  boy,  Rob,  well 
recommended,  as  I  told  you,  from  Dombey's  house.  If  all 
else  should  come  to  the  hammer,  take  care,  Ned,  of  the  lit- 
tle midshipman.'  " 

To  convey  to  posterity  any  idea  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  captain,   after   turning  this   letter  over   and   over,   and 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  361 

reading  it  a  score  of  times,  sat  down  in  his  chair,  and  held 
a  court-martial  on  the  subject  in  his  own  mind,  would 
require  the  united  genius  of  all  the  great  men,  who,  dis- 
carding their  own  untoward  days,  have  determ.ined  to  go 
down  to  posterity,  and  have  never  got  there.  At  first  the 
captain  was  too  much  confounded  and  distressed  to  think 
of  any  thing  but  the  letter  itself  ;  and  even  when  histhoughts 
glanced  upon  the  various  attendant  facts,  they  might,  per- 
haps, as  well  have  occupied  themselves  with  their  former 
theme,  for  any  light  they  reflected  on  them.  In  this  state  of 
mind,  Captain  Cuttle  having  the  Grinder  before  the  court, 
and  no  one  else,  found  it  a  great  relief  to  decide,  generally, 
that  he  was  an  object  of  suspicion  ;  which  the  captain  so 
clearly  expressed  in  his  visage,  that  Rob  remonstrated. 

*'  Oh,  don't,  captain  !  "  cried  the  Grinder.  "  I  wonder 
how  you  can  !  what  have  I  done  to  be  looked  at  like  that  ?  " 

"  My  lad,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  "don't  you  sing  out  afore 
you're  hurt.     And  don't  you  commit  yourself,  whatever  you 

do." 

"  I    haven't   been     and    committed    nothing,    captain ! " 

answered  Rob. 

"Keep  her  free,   then,"   said   the  captain,    impressively, 

"  and  ride  easy.'" 

With  a  deep  sense  of  the  responsibility  imposed  upon  him, 
and  the  necessity  of  thoroughly  fathoming  this  mysterious 
affair,  as  became  a  man  in  his  relations  with  the  parties. 
Captain  Cuttle  resolved  to  go  dovrn  and  examine  the  prem- 
ises, and  to  keep  the  Grinder  with  him.  Considering  that 
youth  as  under  arrest  at  present,  the  captain  was  in  some 
doubt  whether  it  might  not  be  expedient  to  handcuff  him, 
or  tie  his  ankles  together,  or  attach  a  weight  to  his  legs  ; 
but  not  being  clear  as  to  the  legality  of  such  formalities,  the 
captain  decided  merely  to  hold  him  by  the  shoulder  all 
the  way,  and  knock  him  down  if  he  made  any  objection. 

However,  he  made  none,  and  consequently  got  to  the 
instrument-maker's  house  without  being  placed  under  any 
more  stringent  restraint.  As  the  shutters  were  not  yet 
taken  down,  the  captain's  first  care  was  to  have  the  shop 
opened  ;  and  when  the  daylight  was  freely  admitted,  he 
proceeded,  with  its  aid,  to  further  investigation. 

The  captain's  first  care  was  to  establish  himself  in  a  chair 
in  the  shop,  as  president  of  the  solemn  tribunal  that  was 
sitting  within  him  ;  and  to  require  Rob  to  lie  down  in  his 
bed  under  the  counter,  show  exactly  where  he   discovered 


362  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  keys  and  packet  when  he  awoke,  how  he  found  the  door 
when  he  went  to  try  it,  how  he  started  off  to  Brig  Place — 
cautiously  preventing  the  latter  imitation  from  being  carried 
further  than  the  threshold — and  so  on  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  When  all  this  had  been  done  several  times,  the 
captain  shook  his  head  and  seemed  to  think  the  matter  had 
a  bad  look. 

Next,  the  captain,  with  some  indistinct  idea  of  finding  a 
body,  instituted  a  strict  search  all  over  the  house  ;  groping  in 
the  cellars  with  a  lighted  candle,  thrusting  his  hook  behind 
doors,  bringing  his  head  into  violent  contact  with  beams,  and 
covering  himself  with  cobwebs.  Mounting  up  to  the  old 
man's  bedroom,  they  found  that  he  had  not  been  in  bed  on 
the  previous  night,  but  had  merely  lain  down  on  the  coverlet, 
as  was  evident  from  the  impression  yet  remaining  there. 

"And  /  think,  captain,"  said  Rob,  looking  round  the 
room,  "  that  when  Mr.  Gills  was  going  in  and  out  so  often, 
these  last  few  days,  he  was  taking  little  things  away,  piece- 
meal, not  to  attract  attention." 

"  Ay  !  "  said  the  captain,    mysteriously.     *'  Why  so,  my 

lad  ?  " 

''  Why,"  returned  Rob,  looking  about,  "  I  don't  see  his 
shaving-tackle.  Nor  his  brushes,  captain.  Nor  no  shirts. 
Nor  yet  his  shoes." 

As  each  of  these  articles  was  mentioned,  Captain  Cuttle 
took  particular  notice  of  the  corresponding  department  of 
the  Grinder,  lest  he  should  appear  to  have  been  in  recent  use, 
or  should  prove  to  be  in  present  possession  thereof.  But 
Pvob  had  no  occasion  to  shave,  certainly  was  not  brushed, 
and  wore  the  clothes  he  had  worn  for  a  long  time  past, 
beyond  all  possibility  of  mistake. 

"  And  what  should  you  say,"  said  the  captain — "not  com- 
mitting yourself — about  his  time  of  sheering  off  ?     Hey  ? " 

"  Why,  I  think,  captain,"  returned  Rob,  "  that  he  must 
ha\  e  gone  pretty  soon  after  I  began  to  snore." 

"  What  o'clock  was  that  ?  "  said  the  captain  prepared  to 
be  very  particular  about  the  exact  time. 

"How  can  I  tell,  captain!"  answered  Rob.  "I  only 
know  that  I'm  a  heavy  sleeper  at  first,  and  a  light  one  toward 
morning  ;  and  if  Mr.  Gills  had  come  through  the  shop  near 
daybreak,  though  ever  so  much  on  tiptoe,  I'm  pretty  sure  I 
should  have  heard  him  shut  the  door,  at  all  events." 

On  mature  consideration  of  this  evidence,  Captain  Cuttle 
began  to  think  that  the   instrument-maker  must  have  van- 


DOAIBEY   AND   SON.  363 

ished  of  his  own  accord  ;  to  which  logical  conclusion  he  was 
assisted  by  the  letter  addressed  to  himself,  which,  as  being 
unquestionably  in  the  old  man's  hand-writing,  would  seem, 
with  no  great  forcing,  to  bear  the  construction  that  he 
arranged  of  his  own  will  to  go,  and  so  went.  The  captain 
had  next  to  consider  where  and  why  ;  and  as  there  was  no 
way  whatsoever  that  he  saw  to  the  solution  of  the  first  diffi- 
culty, he  confined  his  meditations  to  the  second. 

Remembering  the  old  man's  curious  manner,  and  the 
farewell  he  had  taken  of  him  ;  unaccountably  fervent-  at  the 
time,  but  quite  intelligible  now  ;  a  terrible  apprehension 
strengthened  on  the  captain,  that,  overpowered  by  his 
anxieties  and  regrets  for  Walter,  he  had  been  driven  to  com- 
mit suicide.  Unequal  to  the  wear  and  tear  of  daily  life,  as 
he  had  often  professed  himself  to  be,  and  shaken  as  he 
no  doubt  was  by  the  uncertainty  and  deferred  hope  he  had 
undergone,  it  seemed  no  violently  strained  misgiving,  but 
only  too  probable. 

Free  from  debt,  and  with  no  fear  for  his  personal  liberty, 
or  the  seizure  of  his  goods,  what  else  but  such  a  state  of 
madness  could  have  hurried  him  away  alone  and  secretly  ? 
As  to  his  carrying  some  apparel  with  him,  if  he  had  really 
done  so — and  they  were  not  even  sure  of  that — he  might 
have  done  so,  the  captain  argued,  to  prevent  inquiry,  to  dis- 
tract attention  from  his  probable  fate,  or  to  ease  the  very 
mind  that  was  now  revolving  all  these  possibilities.  Such, 
reduced  into  plain  language,  and  condensed  within  a  small 
compass,  was  the  final  result  and  substance  of  Captain  Cut- 
tle's deliberations  ;  which  took  a  long  time  to  arrive  at  this 
pass,  and  were,  like  some  more  public  deliberations,  very 
discursive  and  disorderly. 

Dejected  and  despondent  in  the  extreme,  Captain  Cuttle 
felt  it  just  to  release  Rob  from  the  arrest  in  which  he  had 
placed  him,  and  to  enlarge  him,  subject  to  a  kind  of  honor- 
able inspection  which  he  still  resolved  to  exercise  ;  and  hav- 
ing hired  a  man,  from  Brogley  the  broker,  to  sit  in  the  shop 
during  their  absence,  the  captain,  taking  Rob  with  him,  issued 
forth  upon  a  dismal  quest  after  the  mortal  remains  of  Sol- 
omon Gills. 

Not  a  station-house  or  bone-house,  or  work-house  in  the 
metropolis  escaped  a  visitation  from  the  hard-glazed  hat. 
Along  the  wharves,  among  the  shipping  on  the  bank-side, 
up  the  river,  down  the  river,  here,  there,  everywhere,  it 
went  gleaming  where  men  were  thickest,  like  the  hero's  hel- 


364  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

met  in  an  epic  battle.  For  a  whole  week  the  captain  read 
of  all  the  found  and  missing  people  in  all  the  newspapers  and 
handbills,  and  went  forth  on  expeditions  at  all  hours  of  the 
day  to  identify  Solomon  Gills,  in  poor  little  ship-boys  who 
had  fallen  overboard,  and  in  tall  foreigners  with  dark  beards 
who  had  taken  poison — "  to  make  sure,"  Captain  Cuttle  said, 
"  that  it  warn't  him."  It  is  a  sure  thing  that  it  never  was, 
and  that  the  good  captain  had  no  other  satisfaction. 

Captain  Cuttle  at  last  abandoned  these  attempts  as  hope- 
less, and  set  himself  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done  next. 
After  several  new  perusals  of  his  friend's  letter,  he  consid- 
ered that  the  maintenance  of  '*  a  home  in  the  old  place  for 
Walter  "  was  the  primary  duty  imposed  upon  him.  There- 
fore the  captain's  decision  was,  that  he  would  keep  house  on 
the  premises  of  Solomon  Gills  himself,  and  would  go  into 
the  instrument-business,  and  see  what  came  of  it. 

But  as  this  step  involved  the  relinquishment  of  his  apart- 
ments at  Mrs.  MacStinger's,  and  he  knew  that  resolute 
woman  would  never  hear  of  his  deserting  them,  the  captain 
took  the  desperate  determination  of  running  away. 

"  Now,  look  ye  here,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain  to  Rob, 
when  he  had  matured  this  notable  scheme,  ''  to-morrow  I 
shan't  be  found  in  this  here  roadstead  till  night — not  till 
arter  midnight  p'rhaps.  But  you  keep  watch  until  you  hear 
me  knock,  and  the  moment  you  do,  turn  to  and  open  the 
door." 

"  Very  good,  captain,"  said  Rob. 

"You'll  continue  to  be  rated  on  this  here  book,"  pursued 
the  captain  condescendingly,  "  and  I  don't  say  but  what  you 
may  get  promotion,  if  you  and  me  should  pull  together  with 
a  will.  But  the  moment  you  hear  me  knock  to-morrow  night, 
whatever  time  it  is,  turn-to  and  show  yourself  smart  with 
the  door./ 

"  I'll  be  sure  to  do  it,  captain,"  replied  Rob. 

"Because,  you  understand,"  resumed  the  captain,  coming 
back  again  to  enforce  this  charge  upon  his  mind,  "  there 
may  be,  for  any  thing  I  can  say,  a  chase  ;  and  I  might  be 
took  while  I  was  waiting,  if  you  didn't  show  yourselt  smart 
with  the  door." 

Rob  again  assured  the  captain  that  he  would  be  prompt 
and  wakeful  ;  and  the  captain  having  made  this  prudent 
arrangement,  went  home  to  Mrs.  MacStinger's  for  the  last 
time. 

The  sense  the  captain  had  of  its  being  the  last  time,  an^ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  365 

of  the  awful  purpose  hidden  beneath  his  blue  waistcoat, 
inspired  him  with  such  a  mortal  dread  of  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
that  the  sound  of  that  lady's  foot  down-stairs  at  any  time  of 
the  day  was  sufficient  to  throw  him  into  a  fit  of  trembling. 
It  fell  out,  too,  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  in  a  charming  tem- 
per—mild and  placid  as  a  house-lamb  ;  and  Captain  Cuttle's 
conscience  suffered  terrible  twinges,  when  she  came  up  to 
inquire  if  she  could  cook  him  nothing  for  his  dinner. 

"  A  nice  small  kidney-pudding  now,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said 
his  landlady  ;  "or  a  sheep's  heart.  Don't  mind  my 
trouble." 

"  No,  thankee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain. 
''Have  a  roast  fowl,"    said  Mrs.   MacStinger,  "with  a  bit 
of  weal  stuffing  and  some  egg  sauce.     Come,  Cap'en  Cuttle  ! 
Give  yourself  a  little  treat  !  " 

"  No,  thankee,  ma'am,"  returned  the  captain,  very 
humbly. 

"  I'm  sure  you're  out  of  sorts  and  want  to  be  stimulated," 
said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "Why  not  have,  for  once  in  a  way, 
a  bottle  of  sherry  wine  ?  " 

"Well,  ma'am,"  rejoined  the  captain,  "if  you'd  be  so 
good  as  take  a  glass  or  two,  I  think  I  would  try  that.  Would 
you  do  me  the  favor,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  torn  to 
pieces  by  his  conscience,  "  to  accept  a  quarter's  rent  ahead  ? " 
"And  why  so,  Cap'en  Cuttle?"  retorted  Mrs.  MacStinger 
— sharply,  as  the  captain  thought. 

The  captain  was  frightened  to  death.  "If  you  would, 
ma'am,"  he  said,  with  submission,  "  it  would  oblige  me.  I 
can't  keep  my  money  very  well.  It  pays  itself  out.  I  should 
take  it  kind  if  you'd  comply." 

"Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  the  unconscious  MacStinger, 
rubbing  her  hands,  "  you  can  do  as  you  please.  It's  not  for 
me,  with  my  family,  to  refuse,  no  more  than  it  is  to  ask." 

"And  would  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  captain,  taking  down 
the  tin  canister  in  which  he  kept  his  cash,  from  the  top  shelf 
of  the  cupboard,  "  be  so  good  as  offer  eighteen-pence  apiece 
to  the  little  family  all  round  ?  If  you  could  make  it  conven- 
ient, ma'am,  to  pass  the  word  presently  for  them  children  to 
come  for'ard  in  a  body,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  'em." 

These  innocent  MacStingers  were  so  many  daggers  to  the 
captain's  breast,  when  they  appeared  in  a  swarm,  and  tore  at 
him  with  the  confiding  trustfulness  he  so  little  deserved. 
The  eye  of  Alexander  MacStinger,  who  had  been  his  favor- 
ite, was  insupportable  to  the  captain;  the  voice  of  Juliana 


S66  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

MacStinger,  who  was  the  picture  of  her  mother,  made  a  cow- 
ard of  him. 

Captain  Cuttle  kept  up  appearances,  nevertheless,  tolerably- 
well,  and  for  an  hour  or  two  was  very  hardly  used  and 
roughly  handled  by  the  young  MacStingers,  who,  in  their 
childish  frolics,  did  a  little  damage  also  to  the  glazed  hat, 
by  sitting  in  it,  two  at  a  time,  as  in  a  nest,  and  drumming  on 
the  inside  of  the  crown  with  their  shoes.  At  length  the  cap- 
tain sorrowfully  dismissed  them,  taking  leave  of  these  cherubs 
with  the  poignant  remorse  and  grief  of  a  man  who  was  going 
to  execution. 

In  the  silence  of  night  the  captain  packed  up  his  heavier 
property  in  a  chest,  which  he  locked,  intending  to  leave  it 
there,  in  all  probability  forever,  but  on  the  forlorn  chance  of 
one  day  finding  a  man  sufficiently  bold  and  desperate  to  come 
and  ask  for  it.  Of  his  lighter  necessaries  the  captain  made  a 
bundle,  and  disposed  his  plate  about  his  person,  ready  for 
flight.  At  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  Brig  Place  was  buried 
in  slumber,  and  Mrs.  MacStinger  was  lulled  in  sweet  oblivion, 
with  her  infants  around  her,  the  guilty  captain,  stealing  down 
on  tiptoe  in  the  dark,  opened  the  door,  closed  it  softly  after 
him,  and  took  to  his  heels. 

Pursued  by  the  image  of  Mrs.  MacStinger  springing  out  of 
bed,  and,  regardless  of  costume,  following  and  bringing  him 
back;  pursued  also  by  a  consciousness  of  his  enormous  crime; 
Captain  Cuttle  held  on  at  a  great  pace,  and  allowed  no  grass 
to  grow  under  his  feet  between  Brig  Place  and  the  instrument- 
maker's  door.  It  opened  when  he  knocked — for  Rob  was  on 
the  watch — and  when  it  was  bolted  and  locked  behind  him, 
Captain  Cuttle  felt  comparatively  safe. 

"  Whew  !  "  cried  the  captain,  looking  round  him,  "  it's  a 
breather  ! " 

**  Nothing  the  matter,  is  there,  captain  ?  "  cried  the  gaping 
Rob. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  after  changing  color,  and 
listening  to  a  passing  footstep  in  the  street.  "  But  mind  ye, 
my  lad,  if  any  lady,  except  either  of  them  two  as  you  see 
t'other  day,  ever  comes  and  asks  for  Cap'en  Cuttle,  be  sure  to 
report  no  person  of  that  name  known,  nor  never  heard  of  here; 
observe  them  orders,  will  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  care,  captain,"  returned  Rob. 

"You  might  say — if  you  liked,"  hesitated  the  captain, 
"  that  you'd  read  in  the  paper  that  a  cap'en  of  that  name  was 
gone  to  Australia,  emigrating  along  with  a  whole  ship's  com- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  367 

plement  of  people,  as  had  all  swore  never  to  come  back  nc 
more." 

Rob  nodded  his  understanding  of  these  instructions;  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  promising  to  make  a  man  of  him  if  he  obeyed 
orders,,  dismissed  him,  yawning,  to  his  bed  under  the  counter, 
and  went  aloft  to  the  chamber  of  Solomon  Gills. 

What  the  captain  suffered  next  day,  whenever  a  bonnet 
passed,  or  how  often  he  darted  out  of  the  shop  to  elude  imag- 
inary MacStingers,  and  sought  safety  in  the  attic,  can  not  be 
told.  But  to  avoid  the  fatigues  attendant  on  this  means  of 
self-preservation,  the  captain  curtained  the  glass  door  of  com- 
munication between  the  shop  and  parlor,  on  the  inside,  fitted 
a  key  to  it  from  the  bunch  that  had  been  sent  to  him,  and  cut 
a  small  hole  of  espial  in  the  wall.  The  advantage  of  this  for- 
tification is  obvious.  On  a  bonnet  appearing,  the  captain 
instantly  slipped  into  his  garrison,  locked  himself  up,  and 
took  a  secret  observation  of  the  enemy.  Finding  it  a  false 
alarm,  the  captain  instantly  slipped  out  again.  And  the  bon- 
nets in  the  street  were  so  very  numerous,  and  alarms  were  so 
inseparable  from  their  appearance,  that  the  captain  was 
almost  incessantly  slipping  in  and  out  all  day  long. 

Captain  Cuttle  found  time,  however,  in  the  midst  of  this 
fatiguing  service,  to  inspect  the  stock;  in  connection  with 
which  he  had  the  general  idea  (very  laborious  to  Rob)  that 
too  much  friction  could  not  be  bestowed  upon  it,  and  that  it 
could  not  be  made  too  bright.  He  also  ticketed  a  few  attrac- 
tive articles  at  a  venture,  at  prices  ranging  from  ten  shillings 
to  fifty  pounds,  and  exposed  them  in  the  window,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  public. 

After  effecting  these  improvements,  Captain  Cuttle,  sur- 
rounded by  the  instruments,  began  to  feel  scientific,  and 
looked  up  at  the  stars  at  night  through  the  sk3--light,  when  he 
was  smoking  his  pipe  in  the  little  back  parlor  before  going  to 
bed,  as  if  he  had  established  a  kind  of  property  in  them.  As 
a  tradesman  in  the  City,  too,  he  began  to  have  an  interest  in 
the  lord  mayor,  and  the  sheriffs,  and  in  public  companies, 
and  felt  bound  to  read  the  quotations  of  the  funds  every  day, 
though  he  was  unable  to  make  out,  on  any  principle  of  navi- 
gation, what  the  figures  meant,  and  could  have  very  well  dis- 
pensed with  the  fractions.  Florence  fehe  captain  waited  on, 
with  his  strange  news  of  Uncle  Sol,  immediately  after  taking 
possession  of  the  midshipman;  but  she  was  av/ay  from  home. 
So  the  captain  sat  himself  down,  in  his  altered  station  of  life, 
with  no  company  but  Rob  the  Grinder;   and  losing  count  of 


36S  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

time,  as  men  do  when  great  changes  come  upon  them,  thought 
musingly  of  Walter,  and  of  Solomon  Gills,  and  even  of  Mrs. 
MacStinger  herself,  as  among  the  things  that  had  been. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

SHADOWS   OF    THE    PAST    AND    FUTURE. 

"  Your  most  obedient,  sir,"  said  the  major.  '*  Damme,  sir, 
a  friend  of  my  friend  Dombey  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I'm 
glad  to  see  you." 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged,  Carker,"  explained  Mr.  Dombey, 
''to  Major  Bagstock  for  his  company  and  conversation. 
Major  Bagstock  has  rendered  me  great  service,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  hat  in  hand,  just  arrived  at  Leam- 
ington, and  just  introduced  to  the  major,  showed  the  major 
his  whole  double  range  of  teeth,  and  trusted  he  might  take 
the  liberty  of  thanking  him  with  all  his  heart  for  having 
effected  so  great  an  improvement  in  Mr.  Dombey' s  looks  and 
spirits. 

"By  gad!  sir,"  said  the  major  in  reply,  "there  are  no 
thanks  due  to  me,  for  it's  a  give-and-take  affair.  A  great 
creature  like  our  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  said  the  major  low- 
ering his  voice,  but  not  lowering  it  so  much  as  to  render  it 
inaudible  to  that  gentleman,  "  can  not  help  improving  and 
exalting  his  friends.  He  strengthens  and  invigorates  a  man, 
sir,  does  Dombey,  in  his  moral  nature." 

Mr.  Carker  "snapped  at  the  expression.  In  his  moral 
nature.  Exactly.  The  very  words  he  had  been  on  the  point 
of  suggesting. 

"But  when  my  friend  Dombey,  sir,"  added  the  major, 
"talks  to  you  of  Major  Bagstock,  I  must  crave  leave  to  set 
him  and  you  right.  He  means  plain  Joe,  sir — Joey  B. — Josh 
Bagstock — Joseph — rough  and  tough  old  J.,  sir.  At  your 
service." 

Mr.  Carker's  excessively  friendly  inclination  toward  the 
major,  and  Mr.  Carker's  admiration  of  his  roughness,  tough- 
ness, and  plainness,  gleamed  out  of  every  tooth  in  Mr. 
Carker's  head. 

"And  now,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  and  Dombey  have 
the  devil's  own  amount  of  business  to  talk  over." 

"  By  no  means,  major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  said  the  major  defiantly,  "I  know  better.     A 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  369 

man  of  your  mark — the  Colossus  of' commerce — i^  not  to  be 
mterrupted.  Your  moments  are  precious.  We  shall  meet 
at  dinner-time.  In  the  interval,  old  Joseph  will  be  scarce. 
The  dinner  hour  is  a  sharp  seven,  Mr.  Carker." 

With  that  the  major,  greatly  swollen  as  to  his  face,  with- 
drew ;  but  immediately  putting  in  his  head  at  the  door  again, 

said  : 

"I  beg  your  pardon.     Dombey,  have  you   any  message 

to 'em?" 

Mr.  Dombey  in  some  embarrassment,  and  not  without  a 
glance  at  the  courteous  keeper  of  his  business  confidence, 
intrusted  the  major  with  his  compliments. 

"By  the  Lord,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "you  must  make  it 
something  warmer  than  that,  or  Old  Joe  will  be  far  from 
welcome." 

"Regards,  then,  if  you  will,  major,"  returned  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  shaking  his  shoulders  ana 
his  great  cheeks  jocularly  :  "  make  it  something  warmer 
than  that." 

"  What  you  please,  then,  major,"  observed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Our  Triend  is  sly,  sir  ;  sly,  sir,  de-vilish  sly,"  said  the 
major,  staring  round  the  door  at  Carker.  "  So  is  Bagstock." 
But  stopping  in  the  midst  of  a  chuckle,  and  drawing  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height,  the  major  solemnly  exclaimed,  as 
he  struck  himself  on  the  chest,  "  Dombey  !  I  envy  your 
feelings.     God  bless  you  !  "  and  withdrew. 

"  You  must  have  found  the  gentleman  a  great  resource," 
said  Carker,  following  him  with  his  teeth. 

"  Very  great  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  He  has  friends  here,  no  doubt,"  pursued  Carker.  "  I 
perceive,  from  what  he  has  said,  that  you  go  into  society 
here.  Do  you  know,"  smiling  horribly,  "  I  am  so  very  glad 
that  you  go  into  society  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  acknowledged  this  display  of  interest  on  the 
part  of  his  second  in  command  by  twirling  his  watch-chain, 
and  slightly  moving  his  head. 

"  You  were  formed  for  society,"  said  Carker.  "  Of  all 
the  men  I  know,  you  are  the  best  adapted,  by  nature  and  by 
position,  for  society.  Do  you  know  I  have  been  frequently 
amazed  that  you  should  have  held  it  at  arm's  length  so 
long  !  " 

"  I  have  had  my  reasons,  Carker.  I  have  been  alone, 
and  indifferent  to  it.     But  you  have  great   social  qualifica- 


370  DOMBEV  AND  SOR 

tions  yourself,  and  are  the  more  likely  to  have  been  sur- 
prised." 

"  Oh  !  //  "  returned  the  other,  with  ready  self-disparage- 
ment. "  It's  quite  another  matter  in  the  case  of  a  man  like 
me.     I  don't  come  into  comparison  wiih yoti." 

Mr.  Dombey  put  his  hand  to  his  neckcloth,  settled  his 
chin  in  it,  coughedj  and  stood  looking  at  his  faithful  friend 
and  servant  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

"  I  shall  have  the  pleasure,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  at 
length,  making  as  if  he  swallowed  something  a  little  too 
large  for  his  throat,  *'  to  present  you  to  my — to  the  major's 
friends.     Highly  agreeable  people." 

"  Ladies  among  them,  I  presume  ?  "  insinuated  the  smooth 
manager. 

*'  They  are  all — that  is  to  say,  they  are  both — ladies," 
replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Only  two  ?  "  smiled  Carker. 

"  They  are  only  two.  I  have  confined  my  visits  to  their 
residence,  and  have  made  no  other  acquaintance  here." 

''  Sisters,  perhaps  ?  "  quoth  Carker. 

"  Mother  and  daughter,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey. 

As  Mr.  Dombey  dropped  his  eyes,  and  adjusted  his  neck- 
cloth again,  the  smiling  face  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager, 
became  in  a  moment,  and  without  any  stage  of  transition, 
transformed  into  a  most  intent  and  frowning  face,  scanning 
his  closely,  and  with  an  ugly  sneer.  As  Mr.  Dombey 
raised  his  eyes,  it  changed  back,  no  less  quickly,  to  its  old 
expression,  and  showed  him  every  gum  of  which  it  stood 
possessed. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Carker ;  "  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted to  know  them.  Speaking  of  daughters,  I  have  seen 
Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  Mr.  Dombey's  face. 

"  I  took  the  liberty  of  waiting  on  her,"  said  Carker,  "  to 
inquire  if  she  could  charge  me  with  any  little  commission. 
I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  the  bearer  of  any  but  her — 
but  her  dear  love." 

Wolf's  face  that  it  was  then,  with  even  the  hot 
tongue  revealing  itself  through  the  stretched  mouth,  as  the 
eyes  encountered  Mr.  Dombey's  ! 

"What  business  intelligence  is  there  ?"  inquired  the  latter 
gentleman  after  a  silence,  during  which  Mr.  Carker  had  pro- 
duced some  memoranda  and  other  papers. 

"  There  is  very  little,"  returned  Carker.    "  Upon  the  whole, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  371 

we  have  not  had  our  usual  good  fortune  of  late  ;  but  that  is  of 
little  moment  to  you.  At  Lloyd's  they  give  up  the  Son  and 
Heir  for  lost.  Well,  she  was  insured,  from  her  keel  to  her 
mast-head." 

"Orker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  taking  a  chair  near  him,  "I 
can  not  say  that  young  man  Gay  ever  impressed  me  favor- 
ably—" 

"  Nor  me,"  interposed  the  manager. 

"  But  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  without  heeding  the  inter- 
ruption, ""  he  had  never  gone  on  board  that  ship.  I  wish  he 
had  never  been  sent  out." 

"  It  is  a  pity  you  didn't  say  so  in  good  time,  is  it  not  ? " 
retorted  Carker  coolly.  *'  However,  I  think  it's  all  for  the 
best.  I  really  think  it's  all  for  the  best.  Did  I  mention  that 
there  was  something  like  a  little  confidence  between  Miss 
Dombey  and  myself  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  sternly. 

"I  have  no  doubt,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  after  an  impres- 
sive pause,  *'  that  wherever  Gay  is,  he  is  much  better  where  he 
is  than  at  home  here.  If  I  were,  or  could  be,  in  your  place,  I 
should  be  satisfied  of  that.  I  am  quite  satisfied  of  it  myself. 
Miss  Dombey  is  confiding  and  young — perhaps  hardly  proud 
enough,  for  your  daughter — if  she  have  a  fault.  Not  that  that 
is  much  though,  I  am  sure.  Will  you  check  these  balances 
with  me  ?'* 

Mr.  Dombey  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  instead  of  bending 
over  the  papers  that  were  laid  before  him,  and  looked  the 
manager  steadily  in  the  face.  The  manager,  with  his  eyelids 
slightly  raised,  affected  to  be  glancing  at  his  figures,  and  to 
await  the  leisure  of  his  principal.  He  showed  that  he  affected 
this,  as  if  from  great  delicacy,  and  with  a  design  to  spare  Mr. 
Dombey' s  feelings;  and  the  latter,  as  he  looked  at  him,  was 
cognizant  of  his  intended  consideration,  and  felt  that  but  for 
it  this  confidential  Carker  would  have  said  a  great  deal  more, 
which  he,  Mr.  Dombey,  was  too  proud  to  ask  for.  It  was  his 
way  in  business,  often.  Little  by  little  Mr.  Dombey's  gaze 
relaxed,  and  his  attention  became  diverted  to  the  papers 
before  him ;  but  while  busy  with  the  occupation  they  afforded 
him  he  frequently  stopped,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Carker  again. 
Whenever  he  did  so  Mr.  Carker  was  demonstrative,  as  before, 
in  his  delicacy,  and  impressed  it  on  his  great  chief  more  and 
more. 

While  they  were  thus  engaged  and,  under  the  skillful  cult- 
ure of  the  manager,  angry  thoughts  in  reference  to  poor  Flor- 


372  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

ence  brooded  and  bred  in  Mr.  Dombey's  breast,  usurping  the 
place  of  the  cold  dislike  that  generally  reigned  there,  Major 
Bagstock,  much  admired  by  the  old  ladies  of  Leamington, 
and  followed  by  the  native  carrying  the  usual  amount  of  light 
baggage,  straddled  along  the  shady  side  of  the  way,  to  make 
a  morning  call  on  Mrs.  Skewton.  It  being  midday  when  the 
major  reached  the  bower  of  Cleopatra,  he  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  find  his  princess  on  her  usual  sofa,  languishing  over  a 
cup  of  coffee,  with  the  room  so  darkened  and  shaded  for  her 
more  luxurious  repose,  that  Withers,  who  was  in  attendance 
on  her,  loomed  like  a  phantom  page. 

"  What  insupportable  creature  is  this  coming  in  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Skewton.  *'  I  can  not  bear  it.  Go  away,  whoever  you 
are  I " 

''  You  have  not  the  heart  to  banish  J.  B.,  ma'am  !  "  said  the 
major,  halting  midway  to  remonstrate,  with  his  cane  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it  ?  On  second  thoughts,  you  may  enter," 
observed  Cleopatra. 

The  major  entered  accordingly,  and,  advancing  to  the  sofa, 
pressed  her  charming  hand  to  his  lips. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Cleopatra,  listlessly  waving  her  fan,  "a 
long  way  off.  Don't  come  too  near  me,  for  I  am  frightfully 
faint  and  sensitive  this  morning,  and  you  smell  of  the  sun. 
You  are  absolutely  tropical." 

"By  George,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "  the  time  has  been 
when  Joseph  Bagstock  has  been  grilled  and  bhstered  by  the 
sun  !  the  time  was  when  he  was  forced,  ma'am,  into  such  full 
blow  by  high  hot-house  heat  in  the  West  Indies,  that  he  was 
known  as  the  flower.  A  man  never  heard  of  Bagstock, 
ma'am,  in  those  days;  he  heard  of  the  flower — the  Flower  of 
Ours.  The  flower  may  have  faded  more  or  less,  ma'am," 
observed  the  major,  dropping  into  a  much  nearer  chair  than 
had  been  indicated  by  his  cruel  divinity;  "but  it  is  a  tough 
plant  yet,  and  constant  as  the  evergreen." 

Here  the  major,  under  cover  of  the  dark  room,  shut  up  one 
eye,  rolled  his  head  like  a  harlequin,  and,  in  his  great  self-sat- 
isfaction, perhaps  went  nearer  to  the  confines  of  apoplexy 
than  he  had  ever  gone  before. 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Granger  ?  "  inquired  Cleopatra  of  her  page. 
Withers  believed  she  was  in  her  own  room. 
"  Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.     "  Go  away  and  shut  the 
door.     I  am  engaged." 

As  Withers  disappeared,  Mrs.  Skewton  turned  her  head 


DOMBEY  AND   SQN.  373 

languidly  toward  the  major,  without  otherwise  moving,  and 
asked  him  how  his  friend  was. 

"  Dombey,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  with  a  facetious 
gurgling  in  his  throat,  "  is  as  well  as  a  man  in  his  condition 
can  be.  His  condition  is  a  desperate  one,  ma'am.  He  is 
touched,  is  Dombey  !  Touched  !  "  cried  the  major.  "  He  is 
bayoneted  through  the  body." 

Cleopatra  cast  a  sharp  look  at  the  major,  that  contrasted 
forcibly  with  the  affected  drawl  in  which  she  presently  said: 

''  Major  Bagstock,  although  I  know  but  little  of  the  world 
— nor  can  I  really  regret  my  inexperience,  for  I  fear  it  is  a 
false  place,  full  of  withering  conventionalities,  where  nature 
is  but  little  regarded,  and  where  the  music  of  the  heart,  and 
the  gushing  of  the  soul,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  which  is 
so  truly  poetical,  is  seldom  heard — I  can  not  misunderstand 
your  meaning.  There  is  an  allusion  to  Edith — to  my 
extremely  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  tracing  the  out- 
line of  her  eyebrows  with  her  forefinger,  "  in  your  words, 
to  which  the  tenderest  of  chords  vibrates  excessively  !  " 

"  Bluntness,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major,  **  has  ever  been  a 
characteristic  of  the  Bagstock  breed.  You  are  right.  Joe 
admits  it." 

"xAnd  that  allusion,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  "would  involve 
one  of  the  most — if  not  positively  the  most — touching,  and 
thrilling,  and  sacred  emotions  of  which  our  sadly-fallen 
nature  is  susceptible,  I  conceive." 

The  major  laid  his  hand  upon  his  lips  and  wafted  a  kiss  to 
Cleopatra,  as  if  to  identify  the  emotion  in  question. 

"  I  feel  that  I  am  weak.  I  feel  that  I  am  wanting  in  that 
energy  which  should  sustain  a  mamma,  not  to  say  a  parent,  on 
such  a  subject,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  trimming  her  lips  with 
the  laced  edge  of  her  pocket-handkerchief;  "  but  I  can  hardly 
approach  a  topic  so  excessively  momentous  to  my  dearest 
Edith  without  a  feeling  of  faintness.  Nevertheless,  bad  man, 
as  you  have  boldly  remarked  upon  it,  and  as  it  has  occasioned 
me  great  anguish  " — Mrs.  Skewton  touched  her  left  side  with 
her  fan — "  I  will  not  shrink  from  my  duty." 

The  major,  under  cover  of  the  dimness,  swelled  and 
swelled,  and  rolled  his  purple  face  about,  and  winked  his  lob- 
ster eye,  until  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  wheezing  which  obliged  him 
to  rise  and  take  a  turn  or  two  about  the  room,  before  his  fair 
friend  could  proceed. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  when  she  at  length 
resumed,  "was  obliging  enough,  now  many  weeks  ago,  to  do 


374  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

us  the  honor  of  visiting  us  here,  in  company,  my  dear  majof, 
with  yourself.  I  acknowledge — let  me  be  open — that  it  is  my 
failing  to  be  the  creature  of  impulse,  and  to  wear  my  heart,  as 
it  were,  outside.  I  know  my  failing  full  well.  My  enemy 
can  not  know  it  better.  But  I  am  not  penitent;  1  would  rather 
not  be  frozen  by  the  heartless  world,  and  am  content  to  bear 
this  imputation  justly." 

Mrs,  Skewton  arranged  her  tucker,  pinched  her  wiry  throat 
to  give  it  a  soft  surface,  and  went  on,  with  great  complacency: 

"  It  gave  me  (my  dearest  Edith  too,  I  am  sure)  infinite 
pleasure  to  receive  Mr,  Dombey.  As  a  friend  of  yours,  my 
dear  major,  we  were  naturally  disposed  to  be  prepossessed  in 
his  favor  ;  and  I  fancied  that  I  observed  an  amount  of  heart 
in  Mr.  Dombey  that  was  excessively  refreshing." 

"  There  is  devilish  little  heart  in  Dombey  now,  ma'am," 
said  the  major. 

"  Wretched  man  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  at  him 
languidly,  "  pray  be  silent." 

"  J,  B.  is  dumb,  ma'am,"  said  the  major. 

"  Mr,  Dombey,"  pursued  Cleopatra,  smoothing  the  rosy 
hue  upon  her  cheeks,  "  accordingly  repeated  his  visit;  and 
possibly  finding  some  attraction  in  the  simplicity  and  primi- 
tiveness  of  our  tastes — for  there  is  always  a  charm  in  nature, 
it  is  so  very  sweet — became  one  of  our  little  circle  every  even- 
ing. Little  did  I  think  of  the  awful  responsibility  into  which 
I  plunged  when  I  encouraged  Mr,  Dombey — to — " 

"  To  beat  up  these  quarters,  ma'am,"  suggested  Major  Bag- 
stock, 

"  Coarse  person  !  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you  anticipate  my 
meaning,  though  in  odious  language." 

Here  Mrs.  Skewton  rested  her  elbow  on  the  little  table  at 
her  side,  and  suffering  her  wrist  to  droop  in  what  she  consid- 
ered a  graceful  and  becoming  manner,  dangled  her  fan  to  and 
fro,  and  lazily  admired  her  hand  while  speaking. 

"  The  agony  I  have  endured,"  she  said,  mincingly,  *'  as  the 
truth  has  by  degrees  dawned  upon  me,  has  been  too  exceed- 
ingly terrific  to  dilate  upon.  My  whole  existence  is  bound  up 
in  my  sweetest  Edith  ;  and  to  see  her  change  from  day  to  day 
— my  beautiful  pet,  who  has  positively  garnered  up  her  heart 
since  the  death  of  that  most  delightful  creature.  Granger — is 
the  most  affecting  thing  in  the  world." 

Mrs.  Skewton' s  world  was  not  a  very  trying  one,  if  one 
might  judge  of  it  by  the  influence  of  its  most  affecting  circum- 
stances upon  her  ;  but  this  by  the  way. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  375 

"  Edith,"  simpered  Mrs.  Skewton,  "who  is  the  perfect  pearl 
of  my  life,  is  said  to  resemble  me.     I  believe  we  are  alike." 

"  There  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  never  will  admit  that 
any  one  resembles  you,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "and  that 
man's  name  is  old  Joe  Bagstock  !  " 

Cleopatra  made  as  if  she  would  brain  the  flatterer  with  her 
fan,  but  relenting,  smiled  upon  him  and  proceeded: 

"If  my  charming  girl  inherits  any  advantages  from  me, 
wicked  one  !  " — the  major  was  the  wicked  one — "  she  inherits 
also  my  foolish  nature.  She  has  great  force  of  character ; 
mine  has  been  said  to  be  immense,  though  I  don't  believe  it ; 
but  once  moved,  she  is  susceptible  and  sensitive  to  the  last 
extent.  What  are  my  feelings  when  I  see  her  pining  ?  They 
destroy  me  !  " 

The  major,  advancing  his  double  chin  and  pursing  up  his 
blue  lips  into  a  soothing  expression,  affected  the  profoundest 
sympathy. 

"  The  confidence,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  that  has  subsisted 
between  us — the  free  development  of  soul  and  openness  of 
sentiment — is  touching  to  think  of.  We  have  been  more  like 
sisters  than  mamma  and  child." 

"J.  B.'s  own  sentiment,"  observed  the  major,  "expressed 
by  J.  B.  fifty  thousand  times  !  " 

"Do  not  interrupt,  rude  man  !"  said  Cleopatra.  "What 
are  my  feelings,  then,  when  I  find  that  there  is  one  subject 
avoided  by  us  !  That  there  is  a  what's  his  name — a  gulf — 
opened  between  us;  that  my  own  artless  Edith  is  changed  to 
me  !     They  are  of  the  most  poignant  description,  of  course." 

The  major  left  his  chair,  and  took  one  nearer  to  the  little 
table. 

"  From  day  to  day  I  see  this,  my  dear  major,"  pioceeded 
Mrs.  Skewton.  "  From  day  to  day  I  feel  this.  From  hour  to 
hour  I  reproach  myself  for  that  excess  of  faith  and  trustful- 
ness which  has  led  to  such  distressing  consequences  ;  and 
almost  from  minute  to  minute  I  hope  that  Mr.  Dombey  may 
explain  himself,  and  relieve  the  torture  I  undergo,  which  is 
extremely  wearing.  But  nothing  happens,  my  dear  major  ;  I 
am  the  slave  of  remorse — take  care  of  the  coffee-cup!  you  are 
so  very  awkward — my  darling  Edith  is  an  altered  being  ;  and 
I  really  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done,  or  what  good  creature  I 
can  advise  with." 

Niajor  Bagstock,  encouraged,  perhaps,  by  the  softened  and 
conildential  tone  into  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  after  several  times 
lapsing  into  it  for  a  moment,  seemed  now  to  have  subsideci* 


376  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

into  for  good,  stretched  out  his  hand  across  the  little  table, 
and  said  with  a  leer, 

"  Advise  with  Joe,  ma'am." 

"  Then,  you  aggravating  monster,"  said  Cleopatra,  giving 
one  hand  to  the  major,  and  tapping  his  knuckles  with  her  fan, 
which  she  held  in  the  other,  "  why  don't  you  talk  to  me  ?  You 
know  what  I  mean.  Why  don't  you  tell  me  something  to  the 
purpose  ? " 

The  major  laughed,  and  kissed  the  hand  she  had  bestowed 
upon  him,  and  laughed  again  immensely. 

"  Is  there  as  much  heart  in  Mr.  Dombey  as  I  gave  him 
credit  for  ? "  languished  Cleopatra,  tenderly.  "  Do  you  think 
he  is  in  earnest,  my  dear  major  ?  Would  you  recommend  his 
being  spoken  to,  or  his  being  left  alone  ?  Now  tell  me,  like  a 
dear  man,  what  you  would  advise." 

''  Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am  ? "  chuckled 
the  major,  hoarsely. 

"  Mysterious  creature  !  "  returned  Cleopatra,  bringing  her 
fan  to  bear  upon  the  major's  nose.  "  How  can  we  marry 
him?" 

"  Shall  we  marry  him  to  Edith  Granger,  ma'am,  I  say  ? " 
chuckled  the  major  again. 

Mrs.  Skewton  returned  no  answer  in  words,  but  smiled 
upon  the  major  with  so  much  archness  and  vivacity  that  that 
gallant  officer,  considering  himself  challenged,  would  have 
imprinted  a  kiss  on  her  exceedingly  red  lips,  but  for  her  inter- 
posing the  fan  with  a  very  winning  and  juvenile  dexterity.  It 
might  have  been  in  modesty;  it  might  have  been  in  apprehen- 
sion of  some  danger  to  their  bloom. 

"  Dombey,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "is  a  great  catch." 

"Oh,  mercenary  wretch  !  "  cried  Cleopatra,  with  a  little 
shriek,  "  I  am  shocked." 

"  And  Dombey,  ma'am,"  pursued  the  major,  thrusting  for- 
ward his  head  and  distending  his  eyes,  "  is  in  earnest.  Joseph 
says  it ;  Bagstock  knows  it  ;  J.  B.  keeps  him  to  the  mark. 
Leave  Dombey  to  himself,  ma'am.  Dombey  is  safe,  ma'am. 
Do  as  you  have  done  ;  do  no  more  ;  and  trust  to  J.  B.  for  the 
end." 

"You  really  think  so,  my  dear  major?"  returned  Cleo- 
patra, who  had  eyed  him  very  cautiously  and  very  search- 
ingly,  in  spite  of  her  listless  bearing. 

"  Sure  of  it,  ma'am  !  "  rejoined  the  major.  "  Cleopatra  the 
peerless  and  her  Antony  Bagstock  will  often  speak  of  this  tri- 
umphantly,  when     sharing    the    elegance    and    wealth   oi 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  377 

Edith  Dombey's  establishment.  Dombey's  right-hand  man, 
ma'am,"  said  the  major,  stopping  abruptly  in  a  chuckle  and 
becoming  serious,  "  has  arrived." 

''  This  morning  ? "  said  Cleopatra. 

"  This  morning,  ma'am,"  returned  the  major.  **  And  Dom- 
bey's anxiety  for  his  arrival,  ma'am,  is  to  be  referred — take  J. 
B.'s  word  for  this,  for  Joe  is  de-vil-ish  sly — "  the  major  tapped 
his  nose  and  screwed  up  one  of  his  eyes  tight,  which  did  not 
enhance  his  native  beauty — "  to  his  desire  that  what  is  in  the 
wind  should  become  known  to  him  without  Dombey's  telling 
and  consulting  him.  For  Dombey  is  as  proud,  ma'am,"  said 
the  major,  "as  Lucifer." 

''  A  charming  quality,"  lisped  Mrs.  Skewton,  *'  reminding 
one  of  dearest  Edith." 

*'Well,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  "I  have  thrown  out  hints 
already,  and  the  right-hand  man  understands  *em  ;  and  I'll 
throw  out  more  before  the  day  is  done.  Dombey  projected 
this  morning  a  ride  to  Warwick  Castle,  and  to  Kenilworth 
to-morrow,  to  be  preceded  by  a  breakfast  with  us.  I  under- 
took the  delivery  of  this  invitation.  Will  you  honor  us  so  far, 
ma'am?"  said  the  major,  swelling  with  shortness  of  breath 
and  slyness,  as  he  produced  a  note  addressed  to  the  Honor- 
able Mrs.  Skewton,  by  favor  of  Major  Bagstock,  wherein  hers 
ever  faithfully,  Paul  Dombey,  besought  her  and  her  amiable 
and  accomplished  daughter  to  consent  to  the  proposed  excur- 
sion; and  in  a  postscript  unto  which  the  same  ever  faithfully 
Paul  Dombey  entreated  to  be  recalled  to  the  remembrance  of 
Mrs.  Granger. 

*'  Hush  !  "  said  Cleopatra,  suddenly,  "  Edith  ! " 

The  loving  mother  can  scarcely  be  described  as  resuming 
her  insipid  and  affected  air  when  she  made  this  exclamation, 
for  she  had  never  cast  it  off ;  nor  was  it  likely  that  she  ever 
would  or  could,  in  any  other  place  than  in  the  grave.  But, 
hurriedly  dismissing  whatever  shadow  of  earnestness,  or  faint 
confession  of  a  purpose,  laudable  or  wicked,  that  her  face  or 
voice  or  manner  had  for  the  moment  betrayed,  she  lounged 
upon  the  couch,  her  most  insipid  and  languid  self  again,  as 
Edith  entered  the  room. 

Edith,  so  beautiful  and  stately,  but  so  cold  and  so  repelling, 
who,  slightly  acknowledging  the  presence  of  Major  Bagstock, 
and  directing  a  keen  glance  at  her  mother,  drew  back  the  cur- 
tain from  a  window  and  sat  down  there  looking  out. 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  said  ]Mrs.  Skewton,  *' where  on  eart> 
have  youbeen  ?     I  have  wanted  you,  my  love,  most  sadly." 


378  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"You  said  you  were  engaged,  and  I  staid  away,"  she 
answered,  without  turning  her  head. 

"  It  was  cruel  to  old  Joe,  ma'am,"  said  the  major,  in  his  gal- 
lantry. 

"  It  was  very  cruel,  I  know,"  she  said,  still  looking  out,  and 
said  with  such  calm  disdain  that  the  major  was  discomfited, 
and  could  think  of  nothing  in  reply. 

"  Major  Bagstock,  my  darling  Edith,"  drawled  her  mother, 
"  who  is  generally  the  most  useless  and  disagreeable  creature 
in  the  world,  as  you  know — " 

"It  is  surely  not  worth  while,  mamma,"  said  Edith,  look- 
ing round,  "  to  observe  these  forms  of  speech.  We  are  quite 
alone.     We  know  each  other." 

The  quiet  scorn  that  sat  upon  her  handsome  face — a  scorn 
that  evidently  lighted  on  herself  no  less  than  them — was  so 
intense  and  deep  that  her  mother's  simper  for  the  instant, 
though  of  a  hardy  constitution,  drooped  before  it. 

"  My  darling  girl — "  she  began  again. 

"Not  woman  yet?"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

"  How  very  odd  you  are  to-day,  my  dear  !  Pray  let  me  say, 
my  love,  that  Major  Bagstock  has  brought  the  kindest  of 
notes  from  Mr.  Dombey,  proposing  that  we  should  breakfast 
with  him  to-morrow,  and  ride  to  Warwick  and  Kenilworth. 
Will  you  go,  Edith?" 

"Will  I  go  ! "  she  repeated,  turning  very  red,  and  breath- 
ing quickly  as  she  looked  round  at  her  mother. 

"  I  knew  you  would,  my  own,"  observed  the  latter,  care- 
lessly. "  It  is,  as  you  say,  quite  a  form  to  ask.  Here  is  Mr. 
Dombey's  letter,  Edith." 

"  Thank  you.    I  have  no  desire  to  read  it,"  was  her  answer. 

"Then  perhaps  I  had  better  answer  it  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Skewton;  "  though  I  had  thought  of  asking  jvz^  to  be  my  sec- 
retary, darling."  As  Edith  made  no  movement  and  no 
answer,  Mrs.  Skewton  begged  the  major  to  wheel  her  little 
table  nearer,  and  to  set  open  the  desk  it  contained,  and  to 
take  out  pen  and  paper  for  her  ;  all  which  congenial  offices 
of  gallantry  the  major  discharged,  with  much  submission  and 
devotion. 

"  Your  regards,  Edith,  my  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton  paus- 
ing, pen  in  hand,  at  the  postscript. 

"  What  you  will,  mamma,"  she  answered,  without  turning 
her  head,  and  with  supreme  indifference. 

Mrs.  Skewton  wrote  what  she  would,  without  seeking  for 
any  more  explicit  directions,  and  handed  her  letter  to  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.        •  379 

major,  who,  receiving  it  as  a  precious  charge,  made  a  show 
of  laying  it  near  his  heart,  but  was  fain  to  put  it  in  the  pocket 
of  his  pantaloons,  on  account  of  the  insecurity  of  his  waist- 
coat. The  major  then  took  a  very  polished  and  chivalrous 
farewell  of  both  ladies,  which  the  elder  one  acknowledged  in 
her  usual  manner,  while  the  younger,  sitting  with  her  face 
addressed  to  the  window,  bent  her  head  so  slightly  that  it 
would  have  been  a  greater  compliment  to  the  niajor  to  have 
made  no  sign  at  all,  and  to  have  left  him  to  infer  that  he  had 
not  been  heard  or  thought  of. 

*'  As  to  alteration  in  her,  sir,"  mused  the  major,  on  his  way 
back — on  which  expedition,  the  afternoon  being  sunny  and 
hot,  he  ordered  the  native  and  the  light  baggage  to  the  front, 
and  walked  in  the  shadow  of  that  expatriated  prince — "  as  to 
alteration,  sir,  and  pining,  and  so  forth,  that  won't  go  down 
with  Joseph  Bagstock.  None  of  that,  sir.  It  won't  do  here. 
But  as  to  there  being  something  of  a  division  between  'em — 
or  a  gulf,  as  the  mother  calls  it — damme,  sir,  that  seems  true 
enough  !  And  it's  odd  enough  !  Well,  sir,"  panted  the 
major,  **  Edith  Granger  and  Dombey  are  well  matched  ;  let 
'em  fight  it  out.     Bagstock  backs  the  winner  !  " 

The  major,  by  saying  these  latter  words  aloud,  in  the  vigor 
of  his  thoughts,  caused  the  unhappy  native  to  stop  and  turn 
round,  in  the  belief  that  he  was  personally  addressed.  Exas- 
perated to  the  last  degree  by  this  act  of  insubordination,  the 
major  (though  he  was  swelling  with  enjoyment  of  his  own 
humor  at  the  moment  of  its  occurrence)  instantly  thrust  his 
cane  among  the  native's  ribs,  and  continued  to  stir  him  up, 
at  short  intervals,  all  the  way  to  the  hotel. 

Nor  was  the  major  less  exasperated  as  he  dressed  for  din- 
ner, during  which  operation  the  dark  servant  underwent  the 
pelting  of  a  shower  of  miscellaneous  objects,  varying  in  size 
from  a  boot  to  a  hair-brush,  and  including  every  thing  that 
came  within  his  master's  reach  ;  for  the  major  plumed  him- 
self on  having  the  native  in  a  perfect  state  of  drill,  and  vis- 
ited the  least  departure  from  strict  discipline  with  this  kind 
of  fatigue  duty.  Add  to  this  that  he  maintained  the  native 
about  his  person  as  a  counter-irritant  against  the  gout,  and 
all  other  vexations,  mental  as  well  as  bodily,  and  the  native 
would  appear  to  have  earned  his  pay — which  was  not  large. 

At  length  the  major,  having  disposed  of  all  the  missiles 
that  were  convenient  to  his  hand,  and  having  called  the 
native  so  many  new  names  as  must  have  given  him  great 
occasion  to  marvel  at  the  resources  of  the  English  language. 


38o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

submitted  to  have  his  cravat  put  on  ;  and  being  dressed,  and 
finding  himself  in  a  brisk  flow  of  spirits  after  this  exercise, 
went  down-stairs  to  enliven  ''  Dombey  "  and  his  right-hand 
man. 

Dombey  was  not  yet  in  the  room,  but  the  right-hand  man 
was  there,  and  his  dental  treasures  were,  as  usual,  ready  for 
the  major. 

"  Well,  sir  !  "  said  the  major.  "  How  have  you  passed  the 
time  since  I  had  the  happiness  of  meeting  you  ?  Have  you 
walked  at  all  ?  " 

"  A  saunter  of  barely  half  an  hour's  duration,"  returned 
Carker.     "  We  have  been  so  much  occupied." 

"  Business,  eh  ?  "  said  the  major. 

'*  A  variety  of  little  matters  necessary  to  be  gone  through," 
replied  Carker.  "  But  do  you  know — this  is  quite  unusual 
with  me,  educated  in  a  distrustful  school,  and  who  am  not 
generally  disposed  to  be  communicative,"  he  said,  breaking 
off,  and  speaking  in  a  charming  tone  of  frankness — "  but  I 
feel  quite  confidential  with  you.   Major  Bagstock." 

"  You  do  me  honor,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  *'  You 
may  be." 

"  Do  you  know,  then,"  pursued  Carker,  **  that  I  have  not 
found  my  friend — our  friend,  I  ought  rather  to  call   him — " 

"  Meaning  Dombey,  sir  ?  "  cried  the  major.  "  You  see  me, 
Mr.  Carker,  standing  here  !     J.  B.  ?  " 

He  was  puffy  enough  to  see,  and  blue  enough  ;  and  Mr. 
Carker  intimated  that  he  had  that  pleasure. 

''  Then  you  see  a  man,  sir,  who  would  go  through  fire  and 
water  to  serve  Dombey,"  returned  Major  Bagstock. 

Mr.  Carker  smiled,  and  said  he  was  sure  of  it.  "  Do  you 
know,  major,"  he  proceeded  :  "  to  resume  where  I  left  off  ; 
that  1  have  not  found  our  friend  so  attentive  to  business 
to-day  as  usual  ?  " 

"  No  ?  "  observed  the  delighted  major. 

"  I  have  found  him  a  little  abstracted,  and  with  his  atten- 
tion disposed  to  wander,"  said  Carker. 

''  By  Jove,  sir  !  "  cried  the  major,  "  there's  a  lady  in  the 
case." 

"  Indeed,  I  begin  to  believe  there  really  is,"  returned 
Carker  ;  ''  I  thought  you  might  be  jesting  when  you  seemed 
to  hint  at  it  ;  for  I  know  you  military  men — " 

The  major  gave  the  horse's  cough,  and  shook  his  head 
and  shoulders,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Well  !  we  are  gay  dogs, 
there's  no  denying,"     He  then  seized   Mr.   Carker  by  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  3S1 

button-hole,  and  with  starting  eyes  whispered  in  his  ear,  that 
she  was  a  woman  of  extraordinary  charms,  sir.  That  she 
was  a  voung  widow,  sir.  That  she  was  of  a  fine  family,  sir. 
That  Dombey  was  over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her,  sir  ; 
and  that  it  would  be  a  good  match  on  both  sides  ;  for  she 
had  beauty,  blood,  and  talent,  and  Dombey  had  fortune  ; 
and  what  more  could  any  couple  have  ?  Hearing  Mr.  Dom- 
bev's  footsteps  without,  the  major  cut  himself  shortly  say- 
ing that  Mr.  Carker  would  see  her  to-morrow  morning,  and 
would  judge  for  himself  ;  and  between  his  mental  excite- 
ment, and  the  exertion  of  saying  all  this  in  wheezy  whispers, 
the  major  sat  gurgling  in  the  throat  and  watering  at  the  eyes, 
until  dinner  was  ready. 

The  major,  like  some  other  noble  animals,  exhibited  him- 
self to  great  advantage  at  feeding-time.  On  this  occasion, 
he  shone  resplendent  at  one  end  of  the  table,  supported  by 
the  milder  luster  of  Mr.  Dombey  at  the  other  ;  while  Carker 
on  one  side  lent  his  ray  to  either  light,  or  suffered  it  to  merge 
into  both,  as  occasion  arose. 

During  the  first  course  or  two,  the  major  was  usually 
grave  ;  for  the  native,  in  obedience  to  general  orders, 
secretly  issued,  collected  every  sauce  and  cruet  round  him, 
and  gave  him  a  great  deal  to 'do,  in  taking  out  the  stoppers, 
and  mixing  up  the  contents  in  his  plate.  Besides  which,  the 
native  had  private  zests  and  flavors  on  a  side-table,  with 
which  the  major  daily  scorched  himself  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
strange  machines  out  of  which  he  spirted  unknown  liquids 
into  the  major's  drink.  But  on  this  occasion.  Major  Bag- 
stock,  even  amidst  these  many  occupations,  found  tinie  to 
be  social  ;  and  his  socialitv  consisted  in  excessive  slyness  for 
the  behoof  of  Mr.  Carker, 'and  the  betrayal  of  Mr.  Dombey's 
state  of  mind. 

"  Dombey,"  said  he,  'S'ou  don't  eat  ;  what's  the  matter  ?  " 
"  Thank  you,"  returned  that  gentleman,  ''  I  am  doing  very 
well  ;   I  have  no  great  appetite  to-day." 

"  Whv,  Dombey,  what's  become  of  it  ?  "  asked  the  major. 
''Where's  it  gone'?  You  haven't  left  it  with  our  friends, 
I'll  swear,  for  1  can  answer  for  their  having  none  to-day  at 
luncheon.  I  can  answer  for  one  of  'em,  at  least  ;  I  won't 
say  which." 

Then  the  major  winked  at  Carker,  and  became  so  fright- 
fully slv,  that  his  dark  attendant  was  obliged  to  pat  him  on 
the  back,  without  orders,  or  he  would  probably  have  disap- 
T;)ear€d  under  the  table. 


382  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

In  a  later  stage  of  the  dinner,  that  is  to  say,  when  the 
native  stood  at  the  major's  elbow  ready  to  serve  the  first 
bottle  of  champagne,  the  major  became  still  slyer. 

''  Fill  this  to  the  brim,  you  scoundrel,"  said  the  major, 
holding  up  his  glass.  ''  Fill  Mr.  Carker's  to  the  brim,  too. 
And  Mr.  Dombey's,  too.  By  gad  !  gentlemen,"  said  the 
major,  winking  at  his  new  friend,  while  Mr.  Dombey  looked 
into  his  plate  with  a  conscious  air,  "  we'll  consecrate  this 
glass  of  wine  to  a  divinity  whom  Joe  is  proud  to  know,  and 
at  a  distance  humbly  and  reverently  to  admire.  Edith,"  said 
the  major,  '*  is  her  name  ;  angelic  Edith  !  " 

''  To  angelic  Edith  !  "  cried  the  smiling  Carker. 

"  Edith,  by  all  means,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

The  entrance  of  the  waiters  with  new  dishes  caused  the 
major  to  be  slyer  yet,  but  in  a  more  serious  vein.  "  Foi 
though  among  ourselves,  Joe  Bagstock  mingles  jest  and 
earnest  on  this  subject,  sir,"  said  the  major,  laying  his 
finger  on  his  lips,  and  speaking  half  apart  to  Carker,  "he  holds 
that  name  too  sacred  to  be  made  the  property  of  these  fel- 
lows, or  of  any  fellows.    Not  a  word,  sir,  while  they  are  here  !  " 

This  was  respectful  and  becoming  on  the  major's  part, 
and  Mr.  Dombey  plainly  felt  it  so.  Although  embarrassed 
in  his  own  frigid  way  by  the  major's  allusions,  Mr.  Dombey 
had  no  objection  to  such  rallying,  it  was  clear,  but  rathei 
courted  it.  Perhaps  the  major  had  been  pretty  near  the 
truth,  when  he  had  divined  that  morning  that  the  great  man 
who  was  too  haughty  formally  to  consult  with,  or  confide  in 
his  prime  minister,  on  such  a  matter,  yet  wished  him  to  be 
fully  possessed  of  it.  Let  this  be  how  it  may,  he  often 
glanced  at  Mr.  Carker  while  the  major  plied  his  light  artil- 
lery, and  seemed  watchful  of  its  effect  upon  him. 

But  the  major,  having  secured  an  attentive  listener,  and 
a  smiler  who  had  not  his  match  in  all  the  world — "  in  short, 
a  de-vilish  intelligent  and  agreeable  fellow,"  as  he  often 
afterward  declared — was  not  going  to  let  him  off  with  a  little 
slyness  personal  to  Mr.  Dombey.  Therefore,  on  the  removal 
of  the  cioth,  the  major  developed  himself  as  a  choice  spirit 
in  the  broader  and  more  comprehensive  range  of  narrating 
regimental  stories,  and  cracking  regimental  jokes,  which  he 
did  with  such  prodigal  exuberance  that  Carker  was  (or 
feigned  to  be)  quite  exhausted  with  laughter  and  admira- 
tion-; while  Mr.  Dombey  looked  on  over  his  starched  cravat, 
like  the  major  s  proprietor,  or  like  n  stately  shov/man  who 
was  glad  to  see  his  b^1r  rlnnrin  ■    ■ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  3S3 

When  the  major  was  too  hoarse  with  meat  and  drink,  and 
the  display  of  his  social  powers,  to  render  himself  intel- 
ligible any  longer,  they  adjourned  to  coffee.  After  which, 
the  major  inquired  of  Mr.  Carker  the  manager,  with  little 
apparent  hope  of  an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  if  he  played 
picquet. 

"  Yes,  I  play  picquet  a  little,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Backgammon,  perhaps,"  observed  the  major,  hesitating. 

"  Yes,  I  play  backgammon  a  little,  too,"  replied  the  man 
of  teeth. 

^'  Carker  plays  at  all  games,  I  believe,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
laying  himself  on  a  sofa  like  a  man  of  wood  without  a  hinge 
or  a  joint  in  him  ;  ''  and  plays  them  well." 

In  sooth,  he  played  the  two  in  question  to  such  perfection 
that  the  major  was  astonished,  and  asked  him,  at  random,  if 
he  played  chess. 

'^  Yes,  I  play  chess  a  little,"  answered  Carker.  "  I  have 
sometimes  played,  and  won  a  game — it's  a  mere  trick — 
without  seeing  the  board." 

"  By  gad,  sir  !  "  said  the  major,  staring,  "  you  are  a  con- 
trast to  Dombey,  who  plays  nothing." 

''  dh  He  /  "  returned  the  manager.  "  Ife  has  never  had 
occasion  to  acquire  such  little  arts.  To  men  like  me  they 
are  sometimes  useful.  As  at  present.  Major  Bagstock,  when 
they  enable  me  to  take  a  hand  with  you." 

It  might  only  be  the  false  mouth,  so  smooth  and  wide  ; 
and  yet  there  seemed  to  lurk  beneath  the  humility  and  sub- 
serviency of  this  short  speech  a  something  like  a  snarl  ;  and, 
for  a  moment,  one  might  have  thought  that  the  vv^hite  teeth 
were  prone  to  bite  the  hand  they  fawned  upon.  But  the 
major  thought  nothing  about  it  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey  lay  medi- 
tating with  his  eyes  half  shut,  during  the  whole  of  the  play, 
which  lasted  until  bedtime. 

By  that  time,  Mr.  Carker,  though  the  winner,  had  mounted 
high  into  the  major's  good  opinion,  insomuch  that  when  he 
left  the  majorat  his  own  room  before  going  to  bed,  the  major, 
as  a  special  attention,  sent  the  native — who  always  rested  on 
a  mattress  spread  upon  the  ground  at  his  master's  door — 
along  the  gallery,  to  light  him  to  his  room  in  state. 

There  was  a  faint  blur  on  the  surface  of  the  mirror  in  Mr. 
Carker's  chamber,  and  its  reflection  was,  perhaps,  a  false 
one.  But  it  showed,  that  night,  the  image  of  a  man  who 
saw,  in  his  fancy,  a  crowd  of  people  slumbering  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet,  like  the  poor  native  at  his  master's  door, 


384  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

who  picked  his  way  among  them,  looking  down,  maliciously 
enough,  but  trod  upon  no  upturned  face — as  yet. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

DEEPER  SHADOWS. 

Mr.  Carker,  the  manager,  rose  with  the  lark,  and  went 
out,  walking  in  the  summer  day.  His  meditations— and  he 
meditated  with  contracted  brows  while  he  strolled  along — 
hardly  seemed  to  soar  as  high  as  the  lark,  or  to  mount  in 
that  direction  ;  rather  they  kept  close  to  their  nest  upon  the 
earth,  and  looked  about,  among  the  dust  and  worms.  But 
there  was  not  a  bird  in  the  air,  singing  unseen,  further  beyond 
the  reach  of  human  eye  than  Mr.  Carker's  thoughts.  He 
had  his  face  so  perfectly  under  control,  that  few  could  say 
more,  in  distinct  terms,  of  its  expression,  than  that  it  smiled 
or  that  it  pondered.  It  pondered  now,  intently.  As  the 
lark  rose  higher,  he  sank  deeper  in  thought.  As  the  lark 
poured  out  her  melody  clearer  and  stronger,  he  fell  into  a 
graver  and  profounder  silence.  At  length,  when  the  lark 
came  headlong  down,  with  an  accumulating  stream  of  song, 
and  dropped  among  the  green  wheat  near  him,  rippling  in 
the  breath  of  the  morning  like  a  river,  he  sprang  up  from  his 
reverie,  and  looked  around  with  a  sudden  smile,  as  courteous 
and  as  soft  as  if  he  had  had  numerous  observers  to  pro- 
pitiate ;  nor  did  he  relapse,  after  being  thus  awakened  ;  but 
clearing  his  face,  like  one  who  bethought  himself  that  it 
might  otherwise  wrinkle  and  tell  tales,  went  smiling  on,  as  if 
for  practice. 

Perhaps  with  an  eye  to  first  impressions,  Mr.  Carker  was 
very  carefully  and  trimly  dressed  that  morning.  Though 
always  somewhat  formal  in  his  dress,  in  imitation  of  the  great 
man  whom  he  served,  he  stopped  short  of  the  extent  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  stiffness  ;  at  once  perhaps  because  he  knew  it  to 
be  ludicrous,  and  because  in  doing  so  he  found  another 
means  of  expressing  his  sense  of  the  difference  and  distance 
between  them.  Some  people  quoted  him  indeed,  in  this 
respect,  as  a  pointed  commentary,  and  not  a  flattering  one, 
on  his  icy  patron  ;  but  the  world  is  prone  to  misconstruc- 
tion, and  Mr.  Carker  was  not  accountable  for  its  bad  pro- 
pensity. 

Clean  and  florid,  with  his  light  complexion,  fading,  as  it 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  385 

were,  in  the  sun  ;  and  his  dainty  step  enhancing  the  softness 
of  the  turf,  Mr.  Carker,  the  manager,  strolled  about 
meadows  and  green  lanes,  and  glided  among  avenues  of 
trees,  until  it  was  time  to  return  to  breakfast.  Taking  a 
nearer  way  back,  Mr.  Carker  pursued  it,  airing  his  teeth, 
and  said  aloud,  as  he  did  so,  "  Now  to  see  the  second  Mrs. 
Dombey  !  " 

He  had  strolled  beyond  the  town,  and  re-entered  it  by  a 
pleasant  walk,  where  there  was  a  deep  shade  of  leafy  trees, 
and  where  there  were  a  few  benches  here  and  there  for 
those  who  chose  to  rest.  It  not  being  a  place  of  general 
resort  at  any  hour,  and  wearing  at  that  time  of  the  still  morn- 
ing the  air  of  being  quite  deserted  and  retired,  Mr.  Carker 
had  it,  or  thought  he  had  it,  all  to  himself.  So,  with  the 
whim  of  an  idle  man,  to  whom  there  yet  remained  twenty 
minutes  for  reaching  a  destination  easily  accessible  in  ten, 
Mr.  Carker  threaded  the  great  boles  of  the  trees,  and  went 
passing  in  and  out,  before  this  one  and  behind  that,  weaving 
a  chain  of  footsteps  on  the  dewy  ground. 

But  he  found  he  was  mistaken  in  supposing  there  was  n© 
one  in  the  grove,  for  as  he  softly  rounded  the  trunk  of  one 
large  tree,  on  which  the  obdurate  bark  was  knotted  and 
overlapped  like  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros  or  some  kindred 
monster  of  the  ancient  days  before  the  flood,  he  saw  an 
unexpected  figure  sitting  on  a  bench  near  at  hand,  about 
which,  in  another  moment,  he  would  have  wound  the  chain 
he  was  making. 

It  was  that  of  a  lady,  elegantly  dressed,  and  very  hand- 
some, whose  dark,  proud  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  ground, 
and  in  whom  some  passion  or  struggle  was  raging.  For  as 
she  sat  looking  down,  she  held  a  corner  of  her  under  lip 
within  her  mouth,  her  bosom  heaved,  her  nostril  quivered, 
her  head  trembled,  indignant  tears  were  on  her  cheek,  and 
her  foot  was  set  upon  the  moss  as  though  she  would  have 
crushed  it  into  nothing.  And  yet  almost  the  self-same 
glance  that  showed  him  this,  showed  him  the  self-same  lady 
rising  with  a  scornful  air  of  weariness  and  lassitude,  and 
turning  away  with  nothmg  expressed  in  face  or  figure  but 
careless  beauty  and  imperious  disdain. 

A  withered  and  very  ugly  old  woman,  dressed  not  so 
much  like  a  gipsy  as  like  any  of  that  medley  race  of  vaga- 
bonds who  tramp  about  the  country,  begging,  and  stealing, 
and  tinkering,  and  weaving  rushes,  by  turns  or  all  together, 
had  been  observing  the  lady,   too  ;  for,  as   she  arose,   this 


356  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

second  figure  strangely  confronting  the  first,  scrambled  up 
from  the  ground — out  of  it,  it  almost  appeared — and  stood 
in  the  way. 

"  Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  my  pretty  lady,"  said  the  old 
woman,  munching  with  her  jaws,  as  if  the  Death's  Head 
beneath  her  yellow  skin  were  impatient  to  get  out. 

"  I  can  tell  it  for  myself,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Ay,  ay,  pretty  lady  ;  but  not  right.  You  didn't  tell  it 
right  when  you  were  sitting  there.  I  see  you  !  Give  me  a 
piece  of  silver,  pretty  lady,  and  I'll  tell  your  fortune  true. 
There's  riches,  pretty  lady,  in  your  face." 

"  I  know,"  returned  the  lady,  passing  her  with  a  dark 
smile  and  a  proud  step.     "  I  knew  it  before." 

"  What  !  You  won't  give  me  nothing  ?  "  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  You  won't  give  me  nothing  to  tell  your  fortune, 
pretty  lady  ?  How  much  will  you  give  me  not  to  tell  it, 
then?  Give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  after  you!" 
croaked  the  old  woman,  passionately. 

Mr.  Carker,  whom  the  lady  was  about  to  pass  close, 
slinking  against  his  tree  as  she  crossed  to  gain  the  path, 
advanced  so  as  to  meet  her,  and  pulling  off  his  hat  as  she  went 
by,  bade  the  old  woman  hold  her  peace.  The  lady 
acknowledged  his  interference  with  an  inclination  of  the  head, 
and  went  her  way. 

''  You  give  me  something  then,  or  I'll  call  it  after  her  !  " 
screamed  the  old  woman,  throwing  up  her  arms,  and  press- 
ing forward  against  his  outstretched  hand.  "  Or  come," 
she  added,  dropping  her  voice  suddenly,  looking  at  him 
earnestly,  and  seeming  in  a  moment  to  forget  the  object 
of  her  wrath,  '^  give  me  something,  or  I'll  call  it  a.fter you  !  " 

"  After  mcy  old  lady  1  "  returned  the  manager,  putting  his 
hand  in  his  pocket. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman,  steadfast  in  her  scrutiny,  and 
holding  out  her  shriveled  hand.     "  J  know  !  " 

"  What  do  you  know  ? "  demanded  Carker,  throwing  her 
a  shilling.     "  Do  you  know  who  the  handsome  lady  is  ?" 

Munching  like  that  sailor's  wife  of  yore,  who  had  chest- 
nuts in  her  lap,  and  scowling  like  the  witch  who  asked  for 
some  in  vain,  the  old  woman  picked  the  shilling  up,  and 
going  backward  like  a  crab,  or  like  a  heap  of  crabs  ;  for  her 
alternately  expanding  and  contracting  hands  might  have 
represented  two  of  that  species,  and  her  creeping  face  some 
half  a  dozen  more  ;  crouched  on  the  venous  root  of  an  old 
tree,  pulled  out  a  short  black  pipe  from  within  the  crown  of 


i30MBEY    AND   SON.  387 

her  bonnet,  lighted  it  with  a  match,  and  smoked  in  silence, 
looking  fixedly  at  her  questioner. 

Mr.  Carker  laughed,  and  turned  upon  his  heel. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  old  woman.  "  One  child  dead,  and 
one  child  living  ;  one  wife  dead,  and  one  wife  coming.  Go 
and  meet  her  !  " 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  manager  looked  round  again,  and 
stopped.  The  old  woman,  who  had  not  removed  her  pipe, 
and  was  munching  and  mumbling  while  she  smoked,  as  if  in 
conversation  with  an  invisible  familiar,  pointed  with  her  finger 
in  the  direction  he  was  going,  and  laughed. 

*'  What  was  that  you  said,  Bedlamite  ?  "  he  demanded. 

The  woman  mumbled,  and  chattered,  and  smoked,  and 
still  pointed  before  him  ;  but  remained  silent.  Muttering  a 
farewell  that  was  not  complimentary,  Mr.  Carker  pursued  his 
way  ;  but  as  he  turned  out  of  that  place,  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree,  he  could  yet  see  the 
finger  pointing  before  him,  and  thought  he  heard  the  woman 
screamxing,  "  Go  and  meet  her  !  " 

Preparations  for  a  choice  repast  were  completed,  he 
found,  at  the  hotel  ;  and  Mr.  Dombey,  and  the  major,  and 
the  breakfast,  were  awaiting  the  ladies.  Individual  constitu- 
tion has  much  to  do  with  the  development  of  such  facts,  no 
doubt  ;  but  in  this  case,  appetite  carried  it  hollow  over  the 
tender  passion  ;  Mr.  Dombey  being  very  cool  and  collected, 
and  the  major  fretting  and  fuming  in  a  state  of  violent  heat 
and  irritation.  At  length  the  door  was  thrown  open  by  the 
native,  and,  after  a  pause,  occupied  by  her  languishing  along 
the  gallery,  a  very  blooming,  but  not  very  youthful  lady, 
appeared. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dombey,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  am  afraid  we 
are  late,  but  Edith  has  been  out  already  looking  for  a  favor- 
able point  of  view  for  a  sketch,  and  kept  me  waiting  for 
her.  Falsest  of  majors,"  giving  him  her  little  finger,  ^'  how 
do  you  do  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  let  me  gratify  my 
friend  Carker  ;  "  Air.  Dombey  unconsciously  emphasized 
the  word  friend,  as  saying  "  no  really  ;  I  do  allow  him  to 
take  credit  for  that  distinction  ;  "  *'  by  presenting  him  to  you. 
You  have  heard  me  mention  Mr.  Carker." 

"  I  am  charmed,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
graciously. 

Mr.  Carker  was  charmed,  of  course.  Would  he  have  been 
more  charmed  on  Mr.  Dombey's  behalf  if  Mrs.  Skewton  had 


388  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

been  (as  he  at  first  supposed  her)  the  Edith  whom  they  had 
toasted  overnight  ? 

"Why,  where,  for  Heaven's  sake,  is  Edith  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Skewton,  looking  round.  "  Still  at  the  door,  giving 
Withers  orders  about  the  mounting  of  those  drawings  !  My 
dear  Mr,  Dombey,  will  you  have  the  kindness — " 

Mr.  Dombey  was  already  gone  to  seek  her.  Next  moment 
he  returned,  bearing  on  his  arm  the  same  elegantly  dressed 
and  very  handsome  lady  whom  Mr.  Carker  had  encountered 
underneath  the  trees. 

''  Carker — "  began  Mr.  Dombey.  But  their  recognition 
of  each  other  was  so  manifest  that  Mr.  Dombey  stopped, 
surprised. 

'*  I  am  obliged  to  the  gentleman,"  said  Edith,  with  a  stately 
bend,  ''  for  sparing  me  some  annoyance  from  an  importunate 
beggar  just  now." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  my  good  fortune,"  said  Mr.  Carker, 
bowing  low,  ^'  for  the  opportunity  of  rendering  so  slight  a 
service  to  one  whose  servant  I  am  proud  to  be." 

As  her  eye  rested  on  him  for  an  instant,  and  then  lighted 
on  the  ground,  he  saw  in  the  bright  and  searching  glance  a 
suspicion  that  he  had  not  come  up  at  the  moment  of  his 
interference,  but  had  secretly  observed  her  sooner.  As  he 
saw  that,  she  saw  in  his  eye  that  her  distrust  was  not  without 
foundation. 

"  Really,"  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  taken  this  oppor- 
tunity of  inspecting  Mr.  Carker  through  her  glass,  and  satis- 
fying herself  (as  she  lisped  audibly  to  the  major)  that  he  was 
all  heart  ;  "  really  now,  this  is  one  of  the  most  enchanting 
coincidences  that  I  ever  heard  of.  The  idea  !  My  dearest 
Edith,  there  is  such  an  obvious  destiny  in  it,  that  really  one 
might  almost  be  induced  to  cross  one's  arms  upon  one's 
frock,  and  say,  like  those  wicked  Turks,  there  is  no  What's- 
his-name  but  Thingummy,  and  What-you-may-call-it  is  his 
prophet !  " 

Edith  deigned  no  revision  of  this  extraordinary  quotation 
from  the  Koran,  but  Mr.  Dombey  found  it  necessary  to  offer 
a  few  polite  remarks. 

"  It  gives  me  great  pleasure,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
cumbrous  gallantry,  ''  that  a  gentleman  so  nearly  connected 
with  myself  as  Carker  is  should  have  had  the  honor  and 
happiness  of  rendering  the  least  assistance  to  Mrs.  Granger." 
Mr.  Dombey  bowed  to  her.  **  But  it  gives  me  some  pain, 
and  it  occasions  me  to  be  really  envious  of  Carker  ;  "  he 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  389 

unconsciously  laid  stress  on  these  words,  as  sensible  that  they 
must  appear  to  in\  olve  a  very  surprising  proposition  ; 
"  envious  of  Carker,  that  I  had  not  that  honor  and  that  hap- 
piness myself."  Mr.  Dombey  bowed  again.  Edith,  saving 
for  a  curl  of  her  lip,  was  motionless. 

"  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  cried  the  major,  bursting  into  speech 
at  sight  of  the  waiter,  who  was  come  to  announce  breakfast, 
*'  it's  an  extraordinary  thing  to  me  that  no  one  can  have  the 
honor  and  happiness  of  shooting  all  such  beggars  through 
the  head  without  being  brought  to  book  for  it.  But  here's 
an  arm  for  Mrs.  Granger,  if  she'll  do  J.  B.  the  honor  to 
accept  ;  and  the  greatest  service  Joe  can  render  you,  ma'am, 
just  now,  is  to  lead  you  in  to  table  !  " 

With  this  the  major  gave  his  arm  to  Edith  ;  Mr.  Dombey 
led  the  way  with  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  Mr.  Carker  went  last, 
smiling  on  the  party. 

"  1  am  quite  rejoiced,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  the  lady-mother 
at  breakfast,  after  another  approving  survey  of  him  through 
her  glass,  "  that  you  have  timed  your  visit  so  happily  as  to 
go  with  us  to-day.     It  is  the  most  enchanting  expedition  !  " 

"  Any  expedition  would  be  enchanting  in  such  society," 
returned  Carker,  "  but  I  believe  it  is,  in  itself,  full  of  inter- 
est." 

"Oh  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  a  faded  little  scream  of 
rapture,  "  the  castle  is  charming  I — associations  of  the 
Middle  Ages — and  all  that — which  is  so  truly  exquisite. 
Don't  you  dote  upon  the  Middle  Ages,  ]Mr.  Carker  ? " 

"  Very  much,  indeed,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

"  Such  charming  times  !  "  cried  Cleopatra.  *'  So  full  of 
faith  !  So  vigorous  and  forcible  !  So  picturesque  !  So 
perfectly  removed  from  commonplace  !  Oh  dear  !  If  they 
would  only  leave  us  a  little  more  of  the  poetry  of  existence 
in  these  terrible  days  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  looking  sharp  after  Mr.  Dombey  all 
the  time  she  said  this,  who  was  looking  at  Edith  ;  who  was 
listening,  but  who  never  lifted  up  her  eyes. 

"  We  are  dreadfully  real,  Mr,  Carker,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton  ; 
"  are  we  not  ?  " 

Few  people  had  less  reason  to  complain  of  their  reality 
than  Cleopatra,  who  had  as  much  that  was  false  about  her 
as  could  well  go  to  the  composition  of  any  body  with  a  real 
individual  existence.  But  Mr.  Carker  commiserated  our 
reality  nevertheless,  and  agreed  that  we  were  very  hardly 
used  in  that  regard. 


390  DOMBEY   AND   SOM. 

"  Pictures  at  the  castle,  quite  divine  !  "  said  Cleopatrd. 
"  I  hope  you  dote  upon  pictures  ?  " 

"  I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with 
solemn  encouragement  of  his  manager,  "  that  Carker  has  a 
very  good  taste  for  pictures  ;  quite  a  natural  power  for 
appreciating  them.  He  is  a  very  creditable  artist  himself. 
He  will  be  delighted,  I  am  sure,  with  Mrs.  Granger's  taste 
and  skill." 

"  Damme,  sir,"  cried  Major  Bagstock,  ''  my  opinion  is 
that  you're  the  admirable  Carker,  and  can  do  any  thing." 

"  Oh  !  "  smiled  Carker,  with  humility,  ''  you  are  much  too 
sanguine,  Major  Bagstock.  I  can  do  very  little.  But  Mr. 
Dombey  is  so  generous  in  his  estimation  of  any  trivial 
accomplishment  a  man  like  myself  may  find  it  almost  neces- 
sary to  acquire,  and  to  which,  in  his  very  different  sphere,  he 
is  far  superior,  that — "  Mr.  Carker  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
deprecating  further  praise,  and  said  no  more. 

All  this  time  Edith  never  raised  her  eyes,  unless  to  glance 
toward  her  mother  when  that  lady's  fervent  spirit  shone  forth 
in  words.  But  as  Carker  ceased,  she  looked  at  Mr.  Dombey 
for  a  moment.  For  a  moment  only  ;  but  with  a  transient 
gleam  of  scornful  wonder  on  her  face,  not  lost  on  one 
observer,  who  was  smiling  round  the  board. 

Mr.  Dombey  caught  the  dark  eyelash  in  its  descent,  and 
took  the  opportunity  of  arresting  it. 

*'  You  have  been  to  Warwick  often,  unfortunately  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Several  times." 

"  The  visit  will  be  tedious  to  you,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Oh  no,  not  at  all." 

"  Ah  !  You  are  like  your  cousin  Feenix,  my  dearest 
Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton.  "He  has  been  to  Warwick 
Castle  fifty  times,  if  he  has  been  there  once  ;  yet  if  he  came 
to  Leamington  to-morrow — I  wish  he  would,  dear  angel  ! — 
he  would  make  his  fifty-second  visit  next  day." 

"We  are  all  enthusiastic,  are  we  not,  mamma?"  said 
Edith,  with  a  cold  smile. 

"  Too  much  so,  for  our  peace,  perhaps,  my  dear,"  re- 
turned her  mother  ;  "but  we  won't  complain.  Our  own 
emotions  are  our  recompense.  If,  as  your  cousin  Feenix 
says,  the  sword  wears  out  the  what's-its-name — " 

"  The  scabbard,  perhaps,"  said  Edith. 

"  Exactly — a  little  too  fast,  it  is  because  it  is  bright  and 
glowing,  you  know,  my  dearest  love." 


DOAIBEY   AND   SON.  391 

Mrs.  Skewton  heaved  a  gentle  sigh,  supposed  to  cast  a 
shadow  on  the  surface  of  that  dagger  of  lath,  whereof  her 
susceptible  bosom  was  the  sheath  ;  and  leaning  her  head  on 
one  side,  in  the  Cleopatra  manner,  looked  with  pensive 
affection  on  her  darling  child. 

Edith  had  turned  her  face  toward  Mr.  Dombey  when  he 
first  addressed  her,  and  had  remained  in  that  attitude  while 
speaking  to  her  mother,  and  while'  her  mother  spoke  to  her, 
as  though  offering  him  her  attention,  if  he  had  any  thing 
more  to  say.  There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  this 
simple  courtesy  ;  almost  defiant,  and  giving  it  the  character 
of  being  rendered  on  compulsion,  or  as  a  matter  of  traffic  to 
which  she  was  a  reluctant  party  ;  again  not  lost  upon  that 
same  observer  who  was  smiling  round  the  board.  It  set  him 
thinking  of  her  as  he  had  first  seen  her,  when  she  had 
believed  herself  to  be  alone  among  the  trees. 

Mr.  Dombey  having  nothing  else  to  say,  proposed — the 
breakfast  being  now  finished,  and  the  major  gorged,  like 
any  boa  constrictor — that  they  should  start.  A  barouche 
being  in  waiting,  according  to  the  orders  of  that  gentleman,' 
the  two  ladies,  the  major  and  himself,  took  their  seats  in  it, 
the  native  and  the  wan  page  mounted  the  box,  Mr.  Towlin- 
son  being  left  behind,  and  Mr.  Carker,  on  horseback  brought 
up  the  rear. 

Mr.  Carker  cantered  behind  the  carriage  at  the  distance  of 
a  hundred  yards  or  so,  and  watched  it,  during  all  the  ride, 
as  if  he  were  a  cat,  indeed,  and  its  four  occupants  mice. 
Whether  he  looked  to  one  side  of  the  road  or  to  the  other — 
over  distant  landscape,  with  its  smooth  undulations,  wind- 
mills, corn,  grass,  bean-fields,  wild-flowers,  farm-yards,  hay 
ricks,  and  the  spire  among  the  wood — or  upward  in  the 
sunny  air,  where  butterflies  were  sporting  round  his  head, 
and  birds  were  pouring  out  their  songs — or  downward,  where 
the  shadows  of  the  branches  interlaced,  and  made  a  trem- 
bling carpet  on  the  road — or  onward,  where  the  overhanging 
trees  formed  aisles  and  arches,  dim  with  the  softened  light 
that  steeped  through  leaves — one  corner  of  his  eye  was  ever 
on  the  formal  head  of  Mr.  Dombey,  addressed  toward  him. 
and  the  feather  in  the  bonnet,  drooping  so  neglectfully  and 
scornfully  between  them  ;  much  as  he  had  seen  the  haughty 
eyelids  droop  ;  not  the  least  so,  when  the  face  met  that  now 
fronting  it.  Once,  and  once  only,  did  his  wary  glance 
release  these  objects  ;  and  that  was,  when  a  leap  over  a  low 
hedge,  and  a  gallop  across  a  field,  enabled  him  to  anticipate 


392  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  carriage  coming  by  the  road,  and  to  be  standing  ready, 
at  the  journey's  end,  to  hand  the  ladies  out.  Then,  and  but 
then,  he  met  her  glance  for  an  instant  in  her  first  surprise  ; 
but  when  he  touched  her,  in  alighting,  with  his  soft,  white 
hand,  it  overlooked  him  altogether  as  before. 

Mrs.  Skewton  was  bent  on  taking  charge  of  Mr.  Carker 
herself,  and  showing  him  the  beauties  of  the  castle.  She  was 
determined  to  have  his  arm,  and  the  major's  too.  It  would 
do  that  incorrigible  creature  ;  who  was  the  most  barbarous 
infidel  in  point  of  poetry  ;  good  to  be  in  such  company. 
This  chance  arrangement  left  Mr.  Dombey  at  liberty  to 
escort  Edith  ;  which  he  did,  stalking  before  them  through 
the  apartments  with  a  gentlemanly  solemnity. 

"  Those  darling  by  gone  times,  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Cleo- 
patra, "  with  their  delicious  fortresses,  and  their  dear  old 
dungeons,  and  their  delightful  places  of  torture,  and  their 
romantic  vengeances,  and  their  picturesque  assaults  and 
sieges,  and  every  thing  that  makes  life  truly  charming  !  How 
dreadfully  we  have  degenerated  !  " 

"  Yes,  we  have  fallen  off  deplorably,"  said  Mr.  Carker. 

The  peculiarity  of  their  conversation  was,  that  Mrs. 
Skewton,  in  spite  of  her  ecstasies,  and  Mr.  Carker,  in  spite 
of  his  urbanity,  were  both  intent  on  watching  Mr.  Dombey 
iind  Edith.  With  all  their  conversational  endowments,  they 
«poke  somewhat  distractedly,  and  at  random  in  consequence. 

"  We  have  no  faith  left,  positively,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
advancing  her  shriveled  ear  ;  for  iVIr.  Dombey  was  saying 
something  to  Edith.  "  We  have  no  faith  in  the  dear  old 
barons,  who  were  the  most  delightful  creatures — or  in  the 
dear  old  priests,  who  were  the  most  warlike  of  men — or 
even  in  the  days  of  that  inestimable  Queen  Bess,  upon  the 
wall  there,  which  were  so  extremely  golden.  Dear  creature  ! 
She  was  all  heart  I  And  that  charming  father  of  hers  !  I 
hope  you  dote  on  Harry  the  Eighth  !  " 

"  I  admire  him  very  much,"  said  Carker. 

"  So  bluff  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "wasn't  he  ?  So  burly. 
So  truly  English.  Such  a  picture,  too,  he  makes,  with  his 
dear  little  peepy  eyes,  and  his  benevolent  chin  !  " 

"  Ah,  ma'am  !  "  said  Carker,  stopping  short  ;  "  but  if  you 
speak  of  pictures,  there's  a  composition  !  What  gallery  in 
the  world  can  produce  the  counterpart  of  that !  " 

As  the  smiling  gentleman  thus  spoke,  he  pointed  through  a 
door-way  to  where  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  were  standing 
alone  in  the  center  of  another  room. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  393 

They  were  not  interchanging  a  word  or  a  look.  Standing 
together,  arm  in  arm,  they  had  the  appearance  of  being 
more  divided  than  if  seas  had  rolled  between  them.  There 
was  a  difference  even  in  the  pride  of  the  two,  that  removed 
them  further  from  each  other,  than  if  one  had  been  the 
proudest  and  the  other  the  humblest  specimen  of  humanity 
in  all  creation.  He,  self-important,  unbending,  formal, 
austere.  She,  lovely  and  graceful  in  an  uncommon  degree, 
but  totally  regardless  of  herself  and  him  and  every  thing 
around,  and  spurning  her  own  attractions  with  a  haughty 
brow  and  lip,  as  if  they  were  a  badge  or  livery  she  hated.  So 
unmatched  were  they,  and  opposed,  so  forced  and  linked 
together  by  a  chain  which  ad^'erse  hazard  and  mischance 
had  forged  ;  that  fancy  might  have  imagined  the  pictures 
on  the  walls  around  them,  startled  by  the  unnatural  con- 
junction, and  observant  of  it  in  their  several  expressions. 
Grim  knights  and  warriors  looked  scowling  on  them.  A 
Churchman,  with  his  hand  upraised,  denounced  the  mock- 
ery of  such  a  couple  coming  to  God's  altar.  Quiet  waters 
in  landscapes,  with  the  sun  reflected  in  their  depths,  asked, 
if  better  means  of  escape  were  not  at  hand,  was  there  no 
drowning  left  ?  Ruins  cried,  '^  Look  here,  and  see  what 
We  are,  wedded  to  uncongenial  Time  !  "  Animals,  opposed 
by  nature,  worried  one  another,  as  a  moral  to  them.  Loves 
and  Cupids  took  to  flight  afraid,  and  ^NLirtyrdom  had  no 
such  torment  in  its  painted  history  of  suffering. 

Nevertheless,  Mrs.  Skewton  was  so  charmed  by  the  sight 
to  which  Mr.  Carker  invoked  her  attention,  that  she  could 
not  refrain  from  saying,  half  aloud,  how  sweet,  how  very 
full  of  soul  it  was  !  Edith,  overhearing,  looked  around,  and 
flushed  indignant  scarlet  to  her  hair. 

''  My  dearest  Edith  knows  I  was  admiring  her  !  "'  said 
Cleopatra,  tapping  her,  almost  timidly,  on  the  back  with  her 
parasol.      ''  Sweet  pet  !  " 

Again  ]\Ir.  Carker  saw  the  strife  he  had  witnessed  so 
unexpectedly  among  the  trees.  Again  he  saw  the  haughty 
languor  and  indifference  come  over  it,  and  hide  it  like  a 
cloud. 

She  did  not  raise  her  eyes  to  him  ;  but  with  a  slight  per- 
emptory motion  of  them,  seemed  to  bid  her  mother  come 
near.  Mrs.  Skewton  thought  it  expedient  to  understand  the 
hint,  and  advancing  quickly,  with  her  two  cavaliers,  kept 
near  her  daughter  from  that  time. 

Mr.  Carker  now,  having  nothing  to   distract  his  attention, 


394         •  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

began  to  discourse  upon  the  pictures,  and  to  select  the  best, 
and  point  them  out  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  speaking  with  his 
usual  recognition  of  Mr.  Dombey's  greatness,  and  rendering 
homage  by  adjusting  his  eyeglass  for  him,  or  finding  out  the 
right  place  in  his  catalogue,  or  holding  his  stick,  or  the  like. 
These  services  did  not  so  much  originate  with  Mr.  Carker, 
in  truth,  as  with  Mr.  Dombey  himself,  who  was  apt  to 
assert  his  chieftainship  by  saying,  with  subdued  authority, 
and  in  an  easy  way — for  him  —  "  Here,  Carker,  have  the 
goodness  to  assist  me,  will  you  ?  "  which  the  smiling  gentle- 
man always  did  with  pleasure. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  pictures,  the  walls,  crow's-nest, 
and  so  forth  ;  and  as  they  were  still  one  little  party,  and  the 
major  was  rather  in  the  shade  ;  being  sleepy  during  the  pro- 
cess of  digestion  ;  Mr.  Carker  became  communicative  and 
agreeable.  At  first,  he  addressed  himself  for  the  most  part 
to  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  but  as  that  sensitive  lady  was  in  such 
ecstasies  with  the  works  of  art,  after  the  first  quarter  of  an 
hour,  that  she  could  do  nothing  but  yawn  (they  were  such 
perfect  inspirations,  she  observed  as  a  reason  for  that  mark 
of  rapture),  he  transferred  his  attentions  to  Mr.  Dombey. 
Mr.  Dombey  said  little  beyond  an  occasional  '*  Very  true, 
Carker,"  but  he  tacitly  encouraged  Carker  to  proceed,  and 
inwardly  approved  of  his  behavior  very  much  ;  deeming  it 
as  well  that  somebody  should  talk,  and  thinking  that  his 
remarks,  which  were,  as  one  might  say,  a  branch  of  the 
parent  establishment,  might  amuse  Mrs.  Granger.  Mr. 
Carker,  who  possessed  an  excellent  discretion,  never  took 
the  liberty  of  addressing  that  lady  direct  ;  but  she  seemed 
to  listen,  though  she  never  looked  at  him  ;  and  once  or 
twice,  when  he  was  emphatic  in  his  peculiar  humility,  the 
twilight  smile  stole  over  her  face,  not  as  a  light,  but  as  a 
deep  black  shadow. 

Warwick  Castle  being  at  length  pretty  well  exhausted,  and 
the  major  very  much  so  ;  to  say  nothing  of  Mrs.  Skewton, 
whose  peculiar  demonstrations  of  delight  had  become  very 
frequent  indeed  ;  the  carriage  was  again  put  in  requisition, 
and  they  rode  to  several  admired  points  of  view  in  the 
neighborhood.  Mr.  Dombey  ceremoniously  observed  of 
one  of  these,  that  a  sketch,  however  slight,  from  the  fair 
hand  of  Mrs.  Granger,  would  be  a  remembrance  to  him  of 
that  beautiful  day  ;  though  he  wanted  no  artificial  remem- 
brance, he  was  sure  (here  Mr.  Dombey  made  another  of  his 
bows),  which  he  must   always  highly  value.     Withers   the 


CHILDHOOD   DID   YOU    EVER   LEA^  E    .0   M.  . 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


395 


lean  having  Edith's  sketch-book  under  his  arm,  was  imme- 
diately called  upon  by  Mrs.  Skewton  to  produce  the  same  : 
and  the  carriage  stopped,  that  Edith  might  make  the  draw- 
ing, which  Mr.  Dombey  was  to  put  away  among  his  treas- 
ures. 

''But  I  am  afraid  I  trouble  you  too  much,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  By  no  means.  Where  would  you  wish  it  taken  from  ?  " 
she  answered,  turning  to  him  with  the  same  enforced  atten- 
tion as  before. 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  another  bow,  which  cracked  the 
starch  in  his  cravat,  would  beg  to  leave  that  to  the    artist. 

"  I    would  rather   you    chose    for  yourself,"   said   Edith. 

"  Suppose  then,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  *'  we  say  from  here. 
It  appears  a  good  spot  for  the  purpose,  or— Carker,  what  do 
yoti  think  ?  " 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  foreground,  at  some  little 
distance,  a  grove  of  trees,  not  unlike  that  in  which  Mr. 
Carker  had  made  his  chain  of  footsteps  in  the  morning,  and 
with  a  seat  under  one  tree,  greatly  resembling,  in  the  general 
character  of  its  situation,  the  point  where  his  chain  had 
broken. 

"  Might  I  venture  to  suggest  to  Mrs.  Granger,"  said 
Carker,  "  that  that  is  an  interesting — almost  a  curious — point 
of  view  ?  " 

She  followed  the  direction  of  his  riding-whip  with  her 
eyes,  and  raised  them  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  the  second 
glance  they  had  exchanged  since  their  introduction  ;  and 
would  have  been  exactly  like  the  first,  but  that  its  expres- 
sion was  plainer. 

"Will  you  like  that?"  said  Edith  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  shall  be  charmed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  Edith. 

Therefore  the  carriage  was  driven  to  the  spot  where  Mr. 
Dombey  was  to  be  charmed  ;  and  Edith,  without  moving 
from  her  seat,  and  opening  her  sketch-book  with  her  usual 
proud  indifference,  began  to  sketch. 

"  My  pencils  are  all  pointless,"  she  said,  stopping  and  turn- 
ing them  over. 

"  Pray  allow  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Or  Carker  will  do 
it  better,  as  he  understands  these  things.  Carker,  have  the 
goodness  to  see  to  these  pencils  for  Mrs.  Granger." 

Mr.  Carker  rode  up  close  to  the  carriage  door  on  Mrs. 
Granger's  side,  and  letting  the  rein  fall  on  his  horse's  neck, 
took  the  pencils  from  her  hand  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  and 


396  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

sat  in  the  saddle  leisurely  mending  them.  Having  done  so, 
he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  hold  them,  and  to  hand  them  to 
her  as  they  were  required  ;  and  thus  Mr.  Carker,  with  many 
commendations  of  Mrs.  Granger's  extraordinary  skill^ — espe- 
cially in  trees — remained  close  at  her  side,  looking  over  the 
drawing  as  she  made  it.  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  mean  time, 
stood  bolt  upright  in  the  carriage,  like  a  highly  respectable 
ghost,  looking  on  too,  while  Cleopatra  and  the  major  dallied 
as  two  ancient  doves  might  do. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  that,  or  shall  I  finish  it  a  little 
more  ? "  said  Edith,  showing  the  sketch  to  Mr.  Dombey. 

Mr.  Dombey  begged  that  it  might  not  be  touched ;  it  was 
perfection. 

''It  is  most  extraordinary,"  said  Carker,  bringing  every 
one  of  his  red  gums  to  bear  upon  his  praise.  "  I  was  not  pre- 
pared for  any  thing  so  beautiful,  and  so  unusual  altogether." 

This  might  have  applied  to  the  sketcher  no  less  than  to 
the  sketch  ;  but  Mr.  Carker's  manner  was  openness  itself— 
not  as  to  his  mouth  alone,  but  as  to  his  whole  spirit.  So  it 
continued  to  be  while  the  drawing  was  laid  aside  for  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  while  the  sketching  materials  were  put  up ; 
then  he  handed  in  the  pencils  (which  were  received  with  a 
distant  acknowledgment  of  his  help,  but  without  a  look),  and 
tightening  his  rein,  fell  back  and  followed  the  carriage  again. 

Thinking,  perhaps,  as  he  rode,  that  even  this  trivial  sketch 
had  been  made  and  delivered  to  its  owner  as  if  it  had  been 
bargained  for  and  bought.  Thinking,  perhaps,  that  although 
she  had  assented  with  such  perfect  readiness  to  his  request, 
her  haughty  face,  bent  over  the  drawing  or  glancing  at  the 
distant  objects  represented  in  it,  had  been  the  face  of  a 
proud  woman,  engaged  in  a  sordid  and  miserable  transac- 
tion. Thinking,  perhaps,  of  such  things  ;  but  smiling  cer- 
tainly, and  while  he  seemed  to  look  about  him  freely,  in 
enjoyment  of  the  air  and  exercise,  keeping  always  that  sharp 
corner  of  his  eye  upon  the  carriage. 

A  stroll  among  the  haunted  ruins  of  Kenilworth,  and  more 
rides  to  more  points  of  view,  most  of  which,  Mrs.  Skewton 
reminded  Mr.  Dombey,  Edith  had  already  sketched,  as  he 
had  seen  in  looking  over  her  drawings,  brought  the  day's 
expedition  to  a  close.  Mrs.  Skewton  and  Edith  were  driven 
to  their  own  lodgings  ;  Mr.  Carker  was  graciously  invited  by 
Cleopatra  to  return  thither  with  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  major 
in  the  evening,  to  hear  some  of  Edith's  music,  and  the  three 
gentlemen  repaired  to  their  hotel  to  dinner. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  397 

The  dinner  was  the  counterpart  of  yesterday's,  except  that 
the  major  was  twenty-four  hours  more  triumphant  and  less 
mysterious.  Edith  was  toasted  again.  IMr.  Dombey  was 
again  agreeably  embarrassed,  and  Mr.  Carker  was  full  of 
interest  and  praise. 

There  were  no  other  visitors  at  Mrs.  Skewton's.  Edith's" 
drawings  were  strewn  about  the  room  a  little  more  abund- 
antly than  usual,  perhaps,  and  Withers,  the  wan  page,  handed 
round  a  little  stronger  tea.  The  harp  was  there,  the  piano 
was  there,  and  Edith  sang  and  played.  But  even  the  music 
was  played  by  Edith  to  ^Ir.  Dombey's  order,  as  it  were,  in 
the  same  uncompromising  way.     As  thus: 

"  Edith,  my  dearest  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  half  an  hour 
after  tea,  "  Mr.  Dombey  is  dying  to  hear  you,  I  know." 

"  Mr.  Dombey  has  life  enough  left  to  say  so  for  himself, 
mamma,  I  have  no  doubt." 

"  I  shall  be  immensely  obliged,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"What  do  you  wish?" 

"  Piano  ?  "  hesitated  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Whatever  you  please.     You  have  only  to  choose." 

Accordingly,  she  began  with  the  piano.  It  was  the  same 
with  the  harp;  the  same  with  her  singing;  the  same  with  the 
selection  of  the  pieces  that  she  sang  and  played.  Such 
frigid  and  constrained,  yet  prompt  and  pointed  acquiescence, 
with  the  wishes  he  imposed  upon  her  and  on  no  one  else, 
was  sufficiently  remarkable  to  penetrate  through  all  the  mys- 
teries of  picquet,  and  impress  itself  on  Mr.  Carker's  keen 
attention.  Nor  did  he  lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  Mr.  Dom- 
bey was  evidently  proud  of  his  power,  and  liked  to  show  it. 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  Carker  played  so  well — some  games 
with  the  major  and  some  with  Cleopatra,  whose  vigilance  of 
eye  in  respect  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith  no  lynx  could  have 
surpassed — that  he  even  heightened  his  position  in  the  lady- 
mother's  good  graces;  and  when,  on  taking  leave,  he  regretted 
that  he  would  be  obliged  to  return  to  London  next  morning, 
Cleopatra  trusted — community  of  feeling  not  being  met  with 
every  day — that  it  v>^as  far  from  being  the  last  time  they 
would  meet. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  an  expressive  look  at 
the  couple  in  the  distance  as  he  drew  toward  the  door,  fol- 
lowing the  major.      "I  think  so." 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  taken  a  stately  leave  of  Edith,  bent, 
or  made  some  approach  to  a  bend,  over  Cleopatra's  couch 
and  said,  in  a  low  voice: 


398  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  I  have  requested  Mrs.  Granger's  permission  to  call  on 
her  to-morrow  morning  —  for  a  purpose  —  and  she  has 
appointed  twelve  o'clock.  May  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  finding  you  at  home,  madam,  afterward  ? " 

Cleopatra  was  so  much  fluttered  and  moved  by  hearing 
this  of  course  incomprehensible  speech,  that  she  could  only 
shut  her  eyes  and  shake  her  head,  and  give  Mr.  Dombey  her 
hand  ;  which  Mr.  Dombey,  not  exactly  knowing  what  to  do 
with,  dropped. 

"  Dombey,  come  along  !  "  cried  the  major,  looking  in  at 
the  door.  "  Damme,  sir,  old  Joe  has  a  great  mind  to  pro- 
pose an  alteration  in  the  name  of  the  Royal  Hotel,  and  that 
it  should  be  called  the  Three  Jolly  Bachelors,  in  honor  of 
ourselves  and  Carker."  With  this  the  major  slapped  Mr. 
Dombey  on  the  back,  and  winking  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
ladies,  with  a  frightful  tendency  of  blood  to  the  head,  car- 
ried him  off. 

Mrs.  Skewton  reposed  on  her  sofa,  and  Edith  sat  apart  by 
her  harp,  in  silence.  The  mother,  trifling  with  her  fan, 
looked  stealthily  at  the  daughter  more  than  once  ;  but  the 
daughter,  brooding  gloomily  with  downcast  eyes,  was  not  to 
be  disturbed. 

Thus  they  remained  for  a  long  hour,  without  a  word,  until 
Mrs.  Skewton' s  maid  appeared,  according  to  custom,  to  pre- 
pare her  gradually  for  night.  At  night  she  should  have  been 
a  skeleton,  with  dart  and  hour-glass,  rather  than  a  woman, 
this  attendant,  for  her  touch  was  as  the  touch  of  death.  The 
painted  object  shriveled  underneath  her  hand;  the  form  col- 
lapsed, the  hair  dropped  off,  the  arched  dark  eyebrows 
changed  to  scanty  tufts  of  gray ;  the  pale  lips  shrunk,  the 
skin  became  cadaverous  and  loose;  an  old,  worn,  yellow,  nod- 
ding woman,  with  red  eyes,  alone  remained  in  Cleopatra's 
place,  huddled  up,  like  a  slovenly  bundle,  in  a  greasy  flannel 
gown. 

The  very  voice  was  changed,  as  it  addressed  Edith,  when 
they  were  alone  again. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  it  said  sharply,  "  that  he  is  com- 
ing here  to-morrow  by  appointment  ? " 

"Because  you  know  it,"  returned  Edith,  "mother." 

The  mocking  emphasis  she  laid  on  that  one  word  ! 

"You  know  that  he  has  bought  me,"  she  resumed  ;  "or 
that  he  will  to-morrow.  He  has  considered  of  his  bargain; 
he  has  shown  it  to  his  friend  ;  he  is  even  rather  proud  of  it ; 
he  thinks  that  it  will  suit  him,  and  may  be  had  sufficiently 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  399 

cheap;  and  he  will  buy  to-nwrrow.  God  !  that  I  have  lived 
for  this,  and  that  I  feel  it ! " 

Compress  into  one  handsome  face  the  conscious  self- 
abasement  and  the  burning  indignation  of  a  hundred  women, 
strong  in  passion  and  in  pride  ;  and  there  it  hid  itself  with 
two  white,  shuddering  arms. 

''  What  do  you  mean  ? "  returned  the  angry  mother. 
"  Haven't  you  from  a  child — " 

"A  child  !"  said  Edith,  looking  at  her;  "when  was  I  a 
child  ?  What  childhood  did  you  ever  leave  to  me  ?  I  was 
a  woman — artful,  designing,  mercenary,  laying  snares  for 
men — before  I  knew  myself  or  you,  or  even  understood  the 
base  and  wretched  aim  of  every  new  display  I  learned.  You 
gave  birth  to  a  woman.  Look  upon  her.  She  is  in  her  pride 
to-night." 

As  she  spoke  she  struck  her  hand  upon  her  beautiful 
bosom,  as  though  she  would  have  beaten  down  herself. 

"Look  at  me,"  she  said,  "who  have  never  known  what  it 
is  to  have  an  honest  heart,  and  love  !  Look  at  me,  taught  to 
scheme  and  plot  when  children  play,  and  married  in  my 
youth — an  old  age  of  design — to  one  for  whom  I  had  no 
feeling  but  indifference.  Look  at  me,  whom  he  left  a  widow, 
dying  before  his  inheritance  descended  to  him — a  judgment 
on  you  I  well  deserved  I — and  tell  me  what  has  been  my  life 
for  ten  years  since." 

"  We  have  been  making  every  effort  to  endeavor  to  secure 
to  you  a  good  establishment,"  rejoined  her  mother.  "  That 
has  been  your  life.     And  now  you  have  got  it." 

"  There  is  no  slave  in  a  market,  there  is  no  horse  in  a  fair, 
so  shown  and  offered  and  examined  and  paraded,  mother,  as 
I  have  been  for  ten  shameful  years  ! "  cried  Edith,  with  a 
burning  brow,  and  the  same  bitter  emphasis  on  the  one  word. 
"  Is  it  not  so  ?  Have  I  been  made  the  by-word  of  all  kinds 
of  men  ?  Have  fools,  have  profligates,  have  boys,  have 
dotards  dangled  after  me,  and  one  by  one  rejected  me  and 
fallen  off,  because  you  were  too  plain,  with  all  your  cunning 
— yes,  and  too  true,  with  all  those  false  pretenses — until  we 
have  almost  come  to  be  notorious  ?  The  license  of  look  and 
touch,"  she  said,  with  flashing  eyes,  "have  I  submitted  to  it, 
in  half  the  places  of  resort  upon  the  map  of  England  ?  Have 
I  been  hawked  and  vended  here  and  there  until  the  last 
grain  of  self-respect  is  dead  within  me,  and  I  loathe  myself? 
Has  this  been  my  late  childhood  ?  I  had  none  before.  Do 
not  tell  me  that  I  had,  to-night,  of  all  nights  in  my  life  ! " 


400  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

*'  You  might  have  been  well  married,"  said  her  mother, 
"  twenty  times  at  least,  Edith,  if  you  had  given  encourage- 
ment enough." 

"  No  !  Who  takes  me,  refuse  that  I  am  and  as  I  well 
deserve  to  be,"  she  answered,  raising  her  head  and  trembling 
in  her  energy  of  shame  and  stormy  pride,  "  shall  take  me  as 
this  man  does,  with  no  art  of  mine  put  forth  to  lure  him. 
He  sees  me  at  the  auction,  and  he  thinks  it  well  to  buy  me. 
Let  him  !  When  he  came  to  view  me — perhaps  to  bid — he 
required  to  see  the  roll  of  my  accomplishments.  I  gave  it 
to  him.  When  he  would  have  me  show  one  of  them,  to  jus- 
tify his  purchase  to  his  men,  I  require  of  him  to  say  which 
he  demands,  and  I  exhibit  it.  I  will  do  no  more.  He  makes 
the  purchase  of  his  own  will,  and  with  his  own  sense  of  its 
worth,  and  the  power  of  his  money,  and  I  hope  it  may  never 
disappoint  him.  /  have  not  vaunted  and  pressed  the  bar- 
gain; neither  have  you,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  prevent 
you." 

"You  talk  strangely  to-night,  Edith,  to  your  own  mother." 

"  It  seems  so  to  me;  stranger  to  me  than  you,"  said  Edith. 
"  But  my  education  was  completed  long  ago.  I  am  too  old 
now,  and  have  fallen  too  low,  by  degrees,  to  take  a  new 
course,  and  to  stop  yours,  and  to  help  myself.  The  germ  of 
all  that  purifies  a  woman's  breast,  and  makes  it  true  and 
good,  has  never  stirred  in  mine,  and  I  have  nothing  else  to 
sustain  me  when  I  despise  myself."  There  had  been  a  touch- 
ing sadness  in  her  voice,  but  it  was  gone  when  she  went  on 
to  say,  with  a  curled  lip,  "  So,  as  we  are  genteel  and  poor,  I 
am  content  that  we  should  be  made  rich  by  these  means;  all 
I  say  is,  I  have  kept  the  only  purpose  I  have  had  strength  to 
form — I  had  almost  said  the  power,  with  you  at  my  side, 
mother — and  have  not  tempted  this  man  on." 

"This  man!  You  speak,"  said  her  mother,  "as  if  you 
hated  him." 

"  And  you  thought  I  loved  him,  did  you  not  ? "  she 
answered,  stopping  on  her  way  across  the  room,  and  looking 
round.  "  Shall  I  tell  you,"  she  continued,  with  her  eyes 
fixed  on  her  mother,  "  who  already  knows  us  thoroughly  and 
reads  us  right,  and  before  whom  I  have  even  less  of  self- 
respect  or  confidence  than  before  my  own  inward  self,  being 
so  much  degraded  by  his  knowledge  of  me  ?" 

"  This  is  an  attack,  I  suppose,"  returned  her  mother 
coldly,  "  on  poor  unfortunate  what's-his-name — Mr,  Carker  ! 
Your  want  of  self-respect  and  confidence,  my  dear,  in  refer- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  401 

ence  to  that  person  (who  is  very  agreeable,  it  strikes  me)  is 
not' likely  to  have  much  effect  on  your  establishment.  Why 
do  you  look  at  me  so  hard  ?     Are  you  ill  ? " 

Edith  suddenly  let  fall  her  face,  as  if  it  had  been  stung, 
and  while  she  pressed  her  hands  upon  it,  a  terrible  tremble 
crept  over  her  whole  frame.  It  was  quickly  gone  ;  and  with 
her  usual  step,  she  passed  out  of  the  room. 

The  maid,  who  should  have  been  a  skeleton,  then  re-ap- 
peared, and  giving  one  arm  to  her  mistress,  who  appeared  to 
have  taken  off  her  manner  with  her  charms,  and  to  have  put 
on  paralysis  with  her  flannel  gown,  collected  the  ashes  of 
Cleopatra,  and  carried  them  away  in  the  other,  ready  for 
to-morrow's  revivification. 

CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

ALTERATIONS. 

**  So  the  day  has  come  at  length,  Susan,"  said  Florence  to 
the  excellent  Nipper,  ''  when  we  are  going  back  to  our  quiet 
home  !  " 

Susan  drew  in  her  breath  with  an  amount  of  expression 
not  easily  described,  and  further  relieving  her  feelings  with 
a  smart  cough,  answered,  "  Very  quiet,  indeed,  Miss  Floy,  no 
doubt.     Excessive  so." 

''When  I  was  a  child,"  said  Florence,  thoughtfully,  and 
after  musing  for  some  moments,  "  did  you  ever  see  that  gen- 
tleman who  has  taken  the  trouble  to  ride  down  here  to  speak 
to  me,  now  three  times — three  times,  I  think,  Susan  ?  " 

"  Three  times,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper.  "  Once  v/hen 
you  was  out  a-walking  with  them  Sket —  " 

Florence  gently  looked  at  her,  and  Miss  Nipper  checked 
herself. 

"  With  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady  I  mean  to  say,  miss,  and 
the  young  gentleman.     And  two  evenings  since  then." 

"  When  I  was  a  child,  and  when  company  used  to  come  to 
visit  papa,  did  you  ever  see  that  gentleman  at  home,  Susan  ? " 
asked  Florence. 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  her  m^aid,  after  considering,  *'  I 
really  couldn't  say  I  ever  did.  When  your  poor  dear  ma 
died,  Miss  Floy,  I  was  very  new  in  the  family,  you  see,  and 
my  element  ;  "  the  Nipper  bridled,  as  opining  that  her  merits 
had  always  been  designedly  extinguished  by  Mr.  Dombey  ; 
"  was  the  floor  below  the  attics." 


402  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Florence,  still  thoughtfully  ;  "  you  are 
not  likely  to  have  known  who  came  to  the  house.  I  quite 
forgot." 

"  Not,  miss,  but  what  we  talked  about  the  family  and 
visitors,"  said  Susan,  '*  and  but  what  I  heard  much  said, 
although  the  nurse  before  Mrs.  Richards  c/i'd  ma.kt  unpleasant 
remarks  when  I  was  in  company,  and  hint  at  little  pitchers, 
but  that  could  only  be  attributed,  poor  thing,"  observed 
Susan,  with  composed  forbearance,  "  to  habits  of  intoxica- 
tion, for  which  she  was  required  to  leave,  and  did." 

Florence,  who  was  seated  at  her  chamber  window,  with 
her  face  resting  on  her  hand,  sat  looking  out,  and  hardly 
seemed  to  hear  what  Susan  said,  she  Avas  so  lost  in  thought. 

"  At  all  events,  miss,"  said  Susan,  *'  I  remember  very  well 
that  this  same  gentleman,  Mr.  Carker,  was  almost,  if  not 
quite,  as  great  a  gentleman  with  your  papa  then  as  he  is  now. 
It  used  to  be  said  in  the  house  then,  miss,  that  he  was  at  the 
head  of  all  your  pa's  affairs  in  the  city,  and  managed  the 
whole,  and  that  your  pa  minded  him  more  than  any  body, 
which,  begging  your  pardon.  Miss  Floy,  he  might  easy  do, 
for  he  never  minded  any  body  else.  I  knew  that,  pitcher  as 
I  might  have  been." 

Susan  Nipper,  with  an  injured  remembrance  of  the  nurse 
before  Mrs.  Richards,  emphasized  "pitcher"  strongly. 

"  And  that  Mr.  Carker  has  not  fallen  off,  miss,"  she 
pursued,  "  but  has  stood  his  ground,  and  kept  his  credit 
with  your  pa,  I  know  from  what  is  always  said  among  our 
people  by  that  Perch,  whenever  he  comes  to  the  house  ;  and 
though  he's  the  weakest  weed  in  the  world.  Miss  Floy,  and 
no  one  can  have  a  moment's  patience  with  the  man,  he  knows 
what  goes  on  in  the  city  tolerable  well,  and  says  that  your  pa 
does  nothing  without  Mr.  Carker,  and  leaves  all  to  Mr.  Car- 
ker, and  acts  according  to  Mr.  Carker,  and  has  Mr.  Carker 
always  at  his  elbow,  and  I  do  believe  that  he  believes  (that 
washiest  of  Perches  !)  that  after  your  pa,  the  Emperor  of 
India  is  the  child  unborn  to  Mr.  Carker." 

Not  a  word  of  this  was  lost  on  Florence,  who,  with  an 
awakened  interest  in  Susan's  speech,  no  longer  gazed 
abstractedly  on  the  prospect  without,  but  looked  at  her,  and 
listened  with  attention. 

"  Yes,  Susan,"  she  said,  when  that  young  lady  had  con- 
cluded. "  He  is  in  papa's  confidence,  and  is  his  friend,  I  am 
sure.'' 

Florence's  mind  ran  high  on  this  theme,  and  had  done  for 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  403 

some  days.  Mr.  Carker,  in  the  two  visits  with  which  he  had 
followed  up  his  first  one,  had  assumed  a  confidence  between 
himself  and  her — a  right  on  his  part  to  be  mysterious  and 
stealthy,  in  telling  her  that  the  ship  was  still  unheard  of — a 
kind  of  mildly  restrained  power  and  authority  over  her — 
that  made  her  wonder,  and  caused  her  great  uneasiness.  She 
had  no  means  of  repelling  it,  or  of  freeing  herself  from  the 
web  he  was  gradually  winding  about  her  ;  for  that  would 
have  required  some  art  and  knowledge  of  the  world,  opposed 
to  such  address  as  his  ;  and  Florence  had  none.  True,  he 
had  said  no  more  to  her  than  that  there  was  no  news  of  the 
ship,  and  that  he  feared  the  worst  ;  but  how  he  came  to  know 
that  she  was  interested  in  the  ship,  and  why  he  had  the  right 
to  signify  his  knowledge  to  her,  so  insidiously  and  darkly, 
troubled  Florence  very  much. 

This  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Carker,  and  her  habit  of 
often  considering  it  with  wonder  and  uneasiness,  began  to 
invest  him  with  an  uncomfortable  fascination  in  Florence's 
thoughts.  A  more  distinct  remembrance  of  his  features, 
voice,  and  manner  ;  which  she  sometimes  courted,  as  a  means 
of  reducing  him  to  the  level  of  a  real  personage,  capable  of 
exerting  no  greater  charm  over  her  than  another  ;  did  not 
remove  the  vague  impression.  And  yet  he  never  frowned, 
or  looked  upon  her  with  an  air  of  dislike  or  animosity,  but 
was  always  smiling  and  serene. 

Again,  Florence,  in  pursuit  of  her  strong  purpose  with 
reference  to  her  father,  and  her  steady  resolution  to  believe 
that  she  was  herself  unwittingly  to  blame  for  their  so  cold 
and  distant  relations,  would  recall  to  mind  that  this  gentle- 
man was  his  confidential  friend,  and  would  think,  with  an 
anxious  heart,  could  her  struggling  tendency  to  dislike  and 
fear  him  be  a  part  of  that  misfortune  in  her,  which  had 
turned  her  father's  love  adrift,  and  left  her  so  alone  ?  She 
dreaded  that  it  might  be  ;  sometimes  believed  it  was  ;  then 
she  resolved  that  she  would  try  to  conquer  this  wrong  feel- 
ing ;  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  honored  and  encouraged 
by  the  notice  of  her  father's  friend  ;  and  hoped  that  patient 
observation  of  him  and  trust  in  him  would  lead  her  bleeding 
feet  along  that  stony  road  which  ended  in  her  father's  heart. 

Thus,  with  no  one  to  advise  her — for  she  could  advise 
with  no  one  without  seeming  to  complain  against  him — 
gentle  Florence  tossed  on  an  uneasy  sea  of  doubt  and  hope  ; 
and  Mr.  Carker,  like  a  scaly  monster  of  the  deep,  swam  down 
below,  and  kept  his  shining  eye  upon  her, 


404  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Florence  had  a  new  reason  in  all  this  for  wishing  to  be  at 
home  again.  Her  lonely  life  was  better  suited  to  her  course 
of  timid  hope  and  doubt  ;  and  she  feared  sometimes  that  in 
her  absence  she  might  miss  some  hopeful  chance  of  testify- 
ing her  affection  for  her  father.  Heaven  knows,  she  might 
have  set  her  mind  at  rest,  poor  child  !  on  this  last  point  ;  but 
her  slighted  love  was  fluttering  within  her,  and  even  in  her 
sleep  it  flew  away  in  dreams,  and  nestled,  like  a  wandering 
bird  come  home,  upon  her  father's  neck. 

Of  Walter  she  thought  often.  Ah  !  how  often,  when  the 
night  was  gloomy,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  round  the 
house  !  But  hope  was  strong  in  her  breast.  It  is  so  difficult 
for  the  young  and  ardent,  even  with  such  experience  as  hers, 
to  imagine  youth  and  ardor  quenched  like  a  weak  flame, 
and  the  bright  day  of  life  merging  into  night  at  noon,  that 
hope  was  strong  yet.  Her  tears  fell  frequently  for  Walter's 
sufferings  ;  but  rarely  for  his  supposed  death,  and  never 
long. 

She  had  written  to  the  old  instrument-maker,  but  had 
received  no  answer  to  her  note  ;  which  indeed  required  none. 
Thus  matters  stood  with  Florence  on  the  morning  when  she 
was  going  home,  gladly,  to  her  old  secluded  life. 

Doctor  and  Mrs.  Biimber,  accompanied  (much  against  his 
will)  by  their  valued  charge.  Master  Barnet,  were  already 
gone  back  to  Brighton,  where  that  young  gentleman  and  his 
fellow-pilgrims  to  Parnassus  were  then,  no  doubt,  in  the 
continual  resumption  of  their  studies.  The  holiday-time  was 
past  and  over  ;  most  of  the  juvenile  guests  at  the  villa  had 
taken  their  departure  ;  and  Florence's  long  visit  was  come 
to  an  end. 

There  was  one  guest,  however,  albeit  not  resident 
within  the  house,  who  had  been  very  constant  in  his  attention 
to  the  family,  and  who  still  remained  devoted  to  them.  This 
was  Mr.  Toots,  who  after  renewing,  some  weeks  ago,  the 
acquaintance  he  had  had  the  happiness  of  forming  with 
Skettles  Junior,  on  the  night  when  he  burst  the  Blimberian 
bonds  and  soared  into  freedom  with  his  ring  on,  called  reg- 
ularly every  other  day,  and  left  a  perfect  pack  of  cards  at  the 
hall-door  ;  so  many,  indeed,  that  the  ceremony  was  quite  a 
deal  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  a  hand  at  whist  on  the 
part  of  the  servant. 

Mr.  Toots,  likewise,  with  the  bold  and  happy  idea  of  pre- 
venting the  family  from  forgetting  him  (but  there  is  reason 
to  suppose  that  this   expedient  originated  in   the   teeming 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  405 

brain  of  the  Chicken),  had  established  a  six-oared  cutter, 
manned  by  aquatic  friends  of  the  Chicken's  and  steered  bv 
that  illustrious  character  in  person,  who  wore  a  bright  red 
fireman's  coat  for  the  purpose,  and  concealed  the  perpetual 
black  eye  with  w^hich  he  was  afflicted  beneath  a  green  shade. 
Previous  to  the  institution  of  this  equipage,  Mr.  Toots 
sounded  the  Chicken  on  a  hypothetical  case,  as,  supposing 
the  Chicken  to  be  enamored  of  a  young  lady  named  Mary, 
and  to  have  conceived  the  intention  of  starting  a  boat  of  his 
own,  what  would  he  call  that  boat  ?  The  Chicken  replied, 
with  divers  strong  asseverations,  that  he  would  either  christen 
it  Poll,  or  The  Chicke?is  Delight.  Improving  on  this  idea, 
Mr.  Toots,  after  deep  study  and  the  exercise  of  much  inven- 
tion, resolved  to  call  his  boat  The  Toots' s  Joy,  as  a  delicate 
compliment  to  Florence,  of  which  no  man  knowing  the  par- 
ties could  possibly  miss  the  appreciation. 

Stretched  on  a  crimson  cushion  in  his  gallant  bark,  with 
his  shoes  in  the  air,  Mr,  Toots,  in  the  exercise  of  his  project, 
had  come  up  the  river,  day  after  day  and  week  after  week, 
and  had  flitted  to  and  fro  near  Sir  Barnet's  garden,  and  had 
caused  his  crew  to  cut  across  and  across  the  river  at  sharp 
angles,  for  his  better  exhibition  to  any  lookers-out  from  Sir 
Barnet's  windows,  and  had  had  such  evolutions  performed 
by  The  Toots  s  Joy  as  had  filled  all  the  neighboring  part  of 
the  water-side  with  astonishment.  But  whenever  he  saw 
any  one  in  Sir  Barnet's  garden  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  Mr. 
Toots  always  feigned  to  be  passing  there,  by  a  combination  of 
coincidences  of  the  most  singular  and  unlikely  descrip- 
tion. 

^'  How  are  you.  Toots  ?  "  Sir  Barnet  would  say,  waving  his 
hand  from  the  lawn,  while  the  artful  Chicken  steered  close 
in-shore. 

^'  How  de  do,  Sir  Barnet  ?  "  Mr.  Toots  would  answer, 
"  What  a  surprising  thing  that  I  should  seejw/  here  !  " 

Mr.  Toots,  in  his  sagacity,  always  said  this,  as  if,  instead 
of  that  being  Sir  Barnet's  house,  it  were  some  deserted  edi- 
fice on  the  banks  of  the  Nile  or  Ganges. 

"  I  never  was  so  surprised  ! ''  Mr.  Toots  would  exclaim. 
"  Is  Miss  Dombey  there  ?  " 

Whereupon  Florence  would  appear,  perhaps. 

"Oh,  Biogenesis  quite  well,  Miss  Dombey  !"  Mr.  Toots 
would  cry.     "  I  called  to  ask  this  morning.' 

"  Thank  you  very  much  !  "  the  pleasant  voice  of  Florence 
would  reply. 


4o6  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"Won't  you  come  ashore,  Toots  ?  "  Sir  Barnet  would  say 
then.     '^  Come  !  you're  in  no  hurry.     Come  and  see  us." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,  thank  you  !  "  Mr.  Toots 
would  blushingly  rejoin.  "  I  thought  Miss  Dombey  might 
like  to  know,  that's  all.  Good-by  !  "  And  poor  Mr.  Toots, 
who  was  dying  to  accept  the  invitation,  but  hadn't  the  cour- 
age to  do  it,  signed  to  the  Chicken,  with  an  aching  heart, 
and  away  went  the  Jo}\  cleaving  the  water  like  an  arrow. 

The  Joy  was  lying  in  a  state  of  extraordinary  splendor  at 
the  garden  steps,  on  the  morning  of  Florence's  departure. 
When  she  went  down-stairs  to  take  leave,  after  her  talk  with 
Susan,  she  found  Mr.  Toots  awaiting  her  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  Oh,  how  de  do,  Miss  Dombey  ?  "  said  the  stricken  Toots, 
always  dreadfully  disconcerted  when  the  desire  of  his  heart 
was  gained,  and  he  was  speaking  to  her  ;  '*  thank  you,  I'm 
very  well  indeed,  I  hope  you're  the  same,  so  was  Diogenes 
yesterday." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Florence. 

"  Thank  you,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I  thought  perhaps  you  Avouldn't  mind,  in  this  fine  weather, 
coming  home  by  water,  Miss  Dombey.  There's  plenty  of 
room  in  the  boat  for  your  maid." 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Florence,  hesitat- 
ing.    "  I  really  am — but  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Oh,  it's  of  no  consequence,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Good-morning  !  " 

"  Won't  you  wait  and  see  Lady  Skettles  ?  "  asked  Florence, 
kindly. 

"  Oh  no,  thank  you,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  ^'  it's  of  no  con- 
sequence at  all." 

So  shy  was  Mr.  Toots  on  such  occasions,  and  so  flurried  ! 
But  Lady  Skettles  entering  at  the  m.oment,  Mr.  Toots  was 
suddenly  seized  with  a  passion  for  asking  her  how  she  did, 
and  hoping  she  was  very  well  ;  nor  could  Mr.  Toots  by  any 
possibility  leave  off  shaking  hands  with  her,  until  Sir  Barnet 
appeared  ;  to  whom  he  immediately  clung  with  the  tenacity 
of  desperation. 

"  We  are  losing,  to-day.  Toots,"  said  Sir  Barnet,  turning 
toward  Florence,  "  the  light  of  our  house,  I  assure  you." 

^*  Oh,  it's  of  no  conseq — I  mean  yes,  to  be  sure,"  faltered 
the  embarrassed  Toots.     "  GooD-morning  !  " 

Notwithstanding  the  emphatic  nature  of  this  farewell,  Mr. 
Toots,  instead   of  going   away,   stood    leering   about    him, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  407 

vacantly.  Florence,  to  relieve  him,  bade  adieu,  with  many 
thanks,  to  Lady  Skettles,  and  gave  her  arm  to  Sir  Barnet. 

"  May  I  beg  of  you,  my  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  her  host, 
as  he  conducted  her  to  the  carriage,  "  to  present  my  best 
compliments  to  your  dear  papa  ?  " 

It  was  distressing  to  Florence  to  receive  the  commission, 
for  she  felt  as  if  she  were  imposing  on  Sir  Barnet,  by  allow- 
ing him  to  believe  that  a  kindness  rendered  to  her  was  ren- 
dered to  her  father.  As  she  could  not  explain,  however,  she 
bowed  her  head  and  thanked  him  ;  and  again  she  thought 
that  the  dull  home,  free  from  such  embarrassments,  and  such 
reminders  of  her  sorrow,  was  her  natural  and  best  retreat. 

Such  of  her  late  friends  and  companions  as  were  yet 
remaining  at  the  villa  came  running  from  within,  and  from 
the  garden,  to  say  good-by.  They  were  all  attached  to  her, 
and  very  earnest  in  taking  leave  of  her.  Even  the  house- 
hold w^ere  sorry  for  her  going,  and  the  servants  came  nod- 
ding and  courtesying  round  the  carriage  door.  As  Florence 
looked  round  on  the  kind  faces,  and  saw  among  them  those 
of  Sir  Barnet  and  his  lady,  and  of  Mr.  Toots,  who  was 
chuckling  and  staring  at  her  from  a  distance,  she  was 
reminded  of  the  night  when  Paul  and  she  had  come  from 
Dr.  Blimber's  ;  and  when  the  carriage  drove  away,  her  face 
was  wet  with  tears. 

Sorrowful  tears,  but  tears  of  consolation,  too  ;  for  all  the 
softer  memories  connected  with  the  dull  old  house  to  which 
she  was  returning  made  it  dear  to  her  as  they  rose  up.  How 
long  it  seemed  since  she  had  wandered  through  the  silent 
rooms  ;  since  she  had  last  crept,  softly  and  afraid,  into  those 
her  father  occupied  ;  since  she  had  felt  the  solemn  but  yet 
soothing  influence  of  the  beloved  dead  in  every  action  of  her 
daily  life  !  This  new  farewell  reminded  her,  besides,  of  her 
parting  with  poor  Walter  ;  of  his  looks  and  words  that 
night  ;  and  of  the  gracious  blending  she  had  noticed  in  him, 
of  tenderness  for  those  he  left  behind,  with  courage  and  high 
spirit.  His  little  history  was  associated  with  the  old  house, 
too,  and  gave  it  a  new  claim  and  hold  upon  her  heart. 

Even  Susan  Nipper  softened  toward  the  home  of  so  many 
years,  as  they  were  on  their  way  toward  it.  Gloomy  as  it 
was,  and  rigid  justice  as  she  rendered  to  its  gloom,  she  for- 
gave it  a  great  deal.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  it  again,  I 
don't  deny,  miss,"  said  the  Nipper.  "  There  ain't  much  in 
it  to  boast  of,  but  I  wouldn't  have  it  burned  or  pulled  down, 
neither  !  " 


4o8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  You'll  be  glad  to  go  through  the  old  rooms,  won't  you, 
Susan  ?  "  said  Florence,  smiling. 

"  Well,  miss,"  returned  the  Nipper,  softening  more  and 
more  toward  the  house  as  they  approached  it  nearer,  "  I  won't 
deny  but  what  I  shall,  though  I  shall  hate  'em  again 
to-morrow,  very  likely." 

Florence  felt  that  for  her  there  was  greater  peace  within 
it  than  elsewhere.  It  was  better  and  easier  to  keep  her 
secret  shut  up  there,  among  the  tall  dark  walls,  than  to  carry 
it  abroad  into  the  light,  and  try  to  hide  it  from  a  crowd  of 
happy  eyes.  It  was  better  to  pursue  the  study  of  her  loving 
heart  alone,  and  find  new  discouragements  in  loving  hearts 
about  her.  It  was  easier  to  hope,  and  pray,  and  live  on, 
uncared  for,  yet  with  constancy  and  patience,  in  the  tranquil 
sanctuary  of  such  remembrances  ;  although  it  moldered, 
rusted,  and  decayed  about  her  ;  than  in  a  new  scene,  let  its 
gayety  be  what  it  would.  She  welcomed  back  her  old 
enchanted  dream  of  life,  and  longed  for  the  old  dark  door 
to  close  upon  her  once  again. 

Full  of  such  thoughts,  they  turned  into  the  long  and  som- 
ber street.  Florence  was  not  on  that  side  of  the  carriage 
which  was  nearest  to  her  home,  and  as  the  distance  lessened 
between  them  and  it,  she  looked  out  of  her  window  for  the 
children  over  the  way. 

She  was  thus  engaged,  when  an  exclamation  from  Susan 
caused  her  to  turn  quickly  around. 

"  Why,  gracious  me  !  "  cried  Susan,  breathless,  "  where's 
our  house  !  " 

''  Our  house  !  "  said  Florence. 

Susan,  drawing  in  her  head  from  the  window,  thrust  it  out 
again,  drew  it  in  again  as  the  carriage  stopped,  and  stared  at 
her  mistress  in  amazement. 

There  was  a  labyrinth  of  scaffolding  raised  all  round  the 
house  from  the  basement  to  the  roof.  Loads  of  bricks  and 
stones,  and  heaps  of  mortar,  and  piles  of  wood,  blocked  up 
half  the  width  and  length  of  the  broad  street  at  the  side. 
Ladders  were  raised  against  the  walls  ;  laborers  were  climb- 
ing up  and  down  ;  men  were  at  work  upon  the  steps  of  the 
scaffolding  ;  painters  and  decorators  were  busy  inside  ;  great 
rolls  of  ornamental  paper  were  being  delivered  from  a  cart  at 
the  door  ;  an  upholsterer's  wagon  also  stopped  the  way  ;  no 
furniture  was  to  be  seen  through  the  gaping  and  broken 
windows  in  any  of  the  rooms  ;  nothing  but  workmen,  and 
the  implements  of  their  several  trades,  swarming  from  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  409 

kitchens  to  the  garrets.  Inside  and  outside  aUke  ;  brick- 
layers, painters,  carpenters,  masons  ;  hammer,  hod,  brush, 
pickax,  saw,  and  trowel  ;  all  at  work  together,  in  full  chorus. 

Florence  descended  from  the  coach,  half  doubting  if  it 
were  or  could  be  the  right  house,  until  she  recognized  Tow- 
linson  with  a  sun-burned  face,  standing  at  the  door  to  receive 
her. 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  ?  "  inquired  Florence. 

"Oh  no,  miss." 

''  There  are  great  alterations  going  on." 

"  Yes,  miss,  great  alterations,"  said  Towlinson. 

Florence  passed  him  as  if  she  were  in  a  dream,  and  hur- 
ried up-stairs.  The  garish  light  was  in  the  long-darkened 
drawing-room,  and  there  were  steps  and  platforms,  and  men 
in  paper  caps,  in  the  high  places.  Her  mother's  picture  was 
gone  with  the  rest  of  the  movables,  and  on  the  mark  where  it 
had  been  was  scrawled  in  chalk,  "  This  room  in  panel. 
Green  and  gold."  The  staircase  was  a  labyrinth  of  posts  and 
planks,  like  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  a  whole  Olympus 
of  plumbers  and  glaziers  was  reclining  in  various  attitudes 
on  the  sky-light.  Her  own  room  was  not  yet  touched  within, 
but  there  were  beams  and  boards  raised  against  it  without, 
balking  the  daylight.  She  went  up  swiftly  to  that  other  bed- 
room, where  the  little  bed  was  ;  and  a  dark  giant  of  a  man 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  head  tied  up  in  a  pocket- 
handkerchief,  w^as  staring  in  at  the  window. 

It  was  here  that  Susan  Nipper,  who*had  been  in  quest  of 
Florence,  found  her,  and  said,  would  she  go  down-stairs  to 
her  papa,  who  wished  to  speak  to  her. 

"  At  home  !  and  wishing  to  speak  to  me  !  "  cried  Florence, 
trembling. 

Susan,  who  was  infinitely  more  distraught  than  Florence 
herself,  repeated  her  errand  ;  and  Florence,  pale  and 
agitated,  hurried  down  again,  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
She  thought  upon  the  way  down,  would  she  dare  to  kiss  him  ? 
The  longing  of  her  heart  resolved  her,  and  she  thought  she 
would. 

Her  father  might  have  heard  that  heart  beat  when  it  came 
into  his  presence.  One  instant,  and  it  would  have  beat 
against  his  breast — 

But  he  was  not  alone.  There  were  two  ladies  there  ;  and 
Florence  stopped.  Striving  so  hard  with  her  emotion,  that 
if  her  brute  friend  Di  had  not  burst  in  and  overwhelmed  her 
with  his  caresses  as  a  welcome  home — at  which  one  of  the 


4TO  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ladies  gave  a  little  scream,  and  that  diverted  her  attention 
from  herself — she  would  have  swooned  upon  the  floor. 

''  Florence,"  said  her  father,  putting  out  his  hand,  so  stiffly 
that  it  held  her  off  ;  "  how  do  you  do  ?  " 

Florence  took  the  hand  between  her  OAvn,  and  putting  it 
timidly  to  her  lips,  yielded  to  its  withdrawal.  It  touched 
the  door  in  shutting  it  with  quite  as  much  endearment  as  it 
had  touched  her. 

"  What  dog  is  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  displeased. 

"  It  is  a  dog,  papa — from  Brighton." 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  ;  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his 
face,  for  he  understood  her. 

**  He  is  very  good-tempered,"  said  Florence,  addressing 
herself  with  her  natural  grace  and  sweetness  to  the  two  lady 
strangers.  "  He  is  only  glad  to  see  me.  Pray  forgive  him." 
she  saw,  in  the  glance  they  interchanged,  that  the  lady  who 
had  screamed,  and  who  was  seated,  was  old  ;  and  that  the 
other  lady,  who  stood  near  her  papa,  was  very  beautiful  and 
of  an  elegant  figure. 

"  Mrs.  Skewton,"  said  her  father,  turning  to  the  first,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  "  this  is  my  daughter  Florence." 

"Charming,  I  am  sure,"  observed  the  lady,  putting  up  her 
glass.  "  So  natural  !  My  darling  Florence,  you  must  kiss 
me,  if  you  please." 

Florence  having  done  so,  turned  toward  the  other  lady,  by 
whom  her  father  stood  waiting. 

*'  Edith,"  said  Mr.aDombey,  **  this  is  my  daughter  Flor- 
ence.    Florence,  this  lady  will  soon  be  your  mamma." 

Florence  started,  and  looked  up  at  the  beautiful  face  in  a 
conflict  of  emotions,  among  which  the  tears  that  name  awak- 
ened struggled  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  interest,  admira- 
tion, and  an  indefinable  sort  of  fear.  Then  she  cried  out, 
"  Oh,  papa,  may  you  be  happy  !  may  you  be  very,  very  happy 
all  your  life  !  "  and  then  fell  weeping  on  the  lady's  bosom. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  The  beautiful  lady,  who  at 
first  had  seemed  to  hesitate  whether  or  no  she  should  advance 
to  Florence,  held  her  to  her  breast,  and  pressed  the  hand 
with  which  she  clasped  her  close  about  her  waist,  as  if  to 
reassure  her  and  comfort  her.  Not  one  word  passed  the 
lady's  lips.  She  bent  her  head  down  over  Florence,  and  she 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek,  but  she  said  no  word. 

''  Shall  we  go  on  through  the  rooms,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  and  see  how  our  workmen  are  doing  ?  Pray  allow  me,  my 
dear  madam." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  411 

He  said  this  in  offering  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had 
been  looking  at  Florence  through  her  glass,  as  though  pictur- 
ing to  herself  what  she  might  be  made,  by  the  infusion — 
from  her  own  copious  store-house,  no  doubt — of  a  little  more 
heart  and  nature.  Florence  was  still  sobbing  on  the  lady's 
breast,  and  holding  to  her,  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  heard  to 
say  from  the   conservatory  : 

"  Let  us  ask  Edith.     Dear  me,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Edith,  my  dear  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  where  are  you  ? 
Looking  for  Mr.  Dombey  somewhere,  I  know.  We  are  here, 
my  love." 

The  beautiful  lady  released  her  hold  of  Florence,  and 
pressing  her  lips  once  more  upon  her  face,  withdrew  hurri- 
edly and  joined  them.  Florence  remained  standing  in  the 
same  place  ;  happy,  sorry,  joyful,  and  in  tears,  she  knew  not 
how,  or  how  long,  but  all  at  once;  when  her  new  mamma  came 
back,  and  took  her  in  her  arms  again. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  lady,  hurriedly,  and  looking  into  her 
face  with  great  earnestness,  **  you  will  not  begin  by  hating 
me  ?  " 

'*  By  hating  you,  mamma  ?"  cried  Florence,  winding  her 
arm  round  her  neck  and  returning  the  look. 

"  Hush  I  Begin  by  thinking  well  of  me,"  said  the  beauti- 
ful lady.  "  Begin  by  believing  that  I  will  try  to  make  you 
happy,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  love  you,  Florence.  Good- 
by.  We  shall  meet  again  soon.  Good-by  !  Don't  stay 
here,  now." 

Again  she  pressed  her  to  her  breast — she  had  spoken  in  a 
rapid  manner,  but  firmly — and  Florence  saw  her  rejoin  them 
in  the  other  room. 

And  now  Florence  began  to  hope  that  she  would  le^n 
from  her  new  and  beautiful  mamma  how  to  gain  her  father's 
love  ;  and  in  her  sleep  that  night,  in  her  lost  old  home,  her 
own  mamma  smiled  radiantly  upon  the  hope,  and  blessed  it. 
Dreaming  Florence  ! 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  EYES    OF  MRS.  CHICK. 

Miss  Tox,  all  unconscious  of  any  such  rare  appearances 
in  connection  with  Mr.  Dombey' s  house  as  scafl'olding  and 
ladders,  and  men  with  tlieir  lieads  tied  up  in  pocket-handker- 


412  DOMBEY    AND"SON. 

chiefs,  glaring  in  at  the  windows  like  flying  genii  or  strange 
birds — having  breakfasted  one  morning  at  about  this  event- 
ful period  of  time  on  her  customary  viands  ;  to  wit,  one 
French  roll  rasped,  one  egg  new  laid  (or  warranted  to  be), 
and  one  little  pot  of  tea,  wherein  was  infused  one  little  silver 
scoopful  of  that  herb  on  behalf  of  Miss  Tox,  and  one 
little  silver  scoopful  on  behalf  of  the  tea-pot — a  flight  of 
fancy  in  which  good  housekeepers  delight  ;  went  up-stairs  to 
set  forth  the  bird-waltz  on  the  harpsichord,  to  water  and 
arrange  the  plants,  to  dust  the  knickknacks,  and,  according 
to  her  daily  custom,  to  make  her  little  drawing-room  the  gar- 
land of  Princess's  Place. 

Miss  Tox  endued  herself  with  the  pair  of  ancient  gloves, 
like  dead  leaves,  in  which  she  was  accustomed  to  perform 
these  avocations — hidden  from  human  sight  at  other  times  in 
a  table-drawer — and  went  methodically  to  work  ;  beginning 
with  the  bird-waltz  ;  passing,  by  a  natural  association  of  ideas, 
to  her  bird — a  very  high-shouldered  canary,  stricken  in 
years,  and  much  rumpled,  but  a  piercing  singer,  as  Princess's 
Place  well  knew  ;  taking,  next  in  order,  the  little  china  orna- 
ments, paper  fly-cages,  and  so  forth  ;  and  coming  round,  in 
good  time,  to  the  plants,  which  generally  required  to  be 
snipped  here  and  there  with  a  pair  of  scissors,  for  some 
botanical  reason  that  was  very  powerful  with  Miss  Tox. 

Miss  Tox  was  slow  in  coming  to  the  plants  this  morning. 
The  weather  was  warm,  the  wind  southerly  ;  and  there  was  a 
sigh  of  the  summer-time  in  Princess's  Place,  that  turned 
Miss  Tox's  thoughts  upon  the  country.  The  pot-boy 
attached  to  the  Princess's  Arms  had  come  out  with  a  can 
and  trickled  water,  in  a  flowing  pattern,  all  over  Princess's 
Place,  and  it  gave  the  weedy  ground  a  fresh  scent — quite  a 
growing  scent.  Miss  Tox  said.  There  was  a  tiny  blink  of 
sun  peeping  in  from  the  great  street  round  the  corner,  and 
the  smoky  sparrows  hopped  over  it  and  back  again,  brighten- 
ing as  they  passed  ;  or  bathed  in  it  like  a  stream,  and  became 
glorified  sparrows,  unconnected  with  chimneys.  Legends 
in  praise  of  ginger  beer,  with  pictorial  representations  of 
thirsty  customers  submerged  in  the  effervescence,  or  stunned 
by  the  flying  corks,  were  conspicuous  in  the  window  of  the 
Princess's  Arms.  They  were  making  late  hay  somewhere 
out  of  town  ;  and  though  the  fragrance  had  a  long  way  to 
come,  and  many  counter-fragrances  to  contend  with  among 
the  dwellings  of  the  poor  (may  God  reward  the  worthy  gen- 
tlemen who  stickle  for  the  plague  as  part  and  parcel  of  the 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  413 

wisdom  of  our  ancestors,  and  who  do  their  little  best  to  keep 
those  dwellings  miserable  !),  yet  it  was  wafted  faintly  into 
Princess's  Place,  whispering  of  nature  and  her  wholesome  air, 
as  such  things  will,  even  unto  prisoners  and  captives,  and 
those  who  are  desolate  and  oppressed,  in  very  spite  of  alder- 
men and  knights  to  boot  ;  at  whose  sage  nod — and  how  they 
nod  ! — the  rolling  world  stands  still  ! 

Miss  Tox  sat  down  upon  the  window-seat,  and  thought  of 
her  good  papa  deceased — Mr.  Tox,  of  the  customs  depart- 
ment of  the  public  service  ;  and  of  her  childhood,  passed  at 
a  sea-port,  among  a  considerable  quantity  of  cold  tar,  and 
some  rusticity.  She  fell  into  a  softened  remembrance  of 
meadows,  in  old  time,  gleaming  with  buttercups,  like  so 
many  inverted  firmaments  of  golden  stars  ;  and  how  she  had 
made  the  chains  of  dandelion-stalks  for  youthful  vowers  of 
eternal  constancy,  dressed  chiefly  in  nankeen  ;  and  how  soon 
those  fetters  had  withered  and  broken. 

Sitting  on  the  window-seat,  and  looking  out  upon  the 
sparrows  and  the  blink  of  sun.  Miss  Tox  thought  likewise  of 
her  good  mamma  deceased — sister  to  the  owner  of  the  pow- 
dered head  and  pigtail — of  her  virtues  and  her  rheumatism. 
And  when  a  man  with  bulgy  legs  and  a  rough  voice,  and  a 
heavy  basket  on  his  head  that  crushed  his  hat  into  a  mere 
black  muffin,  came  crying  flowers  down  Princess's  Place, 
making  his  timid  little  roots  of  daisies  shudder  in  the  vibra- 
tion of  every  yell  he  gave,  as  though  he  had  been  an  ogre 
hawking  little  children,  summer  recollections  were  so  strong 
upon  Miss  Tox,  that  she  shook  her  head,  and  murmured  she 
would  be  comparatively  old  before  she  knew  it — which 
seemed  likely. 

In  her  pensive  mood,  Miss  Tox's  thoughts  went  wander- 
ing on  Mr.  Dombey's  track  ;  probably  because  the  major 
had  returned  home  to  his  lodgings  opposite,  and  had  just 
bowed  to  her  from  his  window.  What  other  reason  could 
Miss  Tox  have  for  connecting  I\Ir.  Dombey  with-  her  sum- 
mer days  and  dandelion  fetters  ?  Was  he  more  cheerful? 
thought  Miss  Tox,  Was  he  reconciled  to  the  decrees  of 
fate  ?  Would  he  ever  marry  again  ?  and  if  yes,  whom  ? 
What  sort  of  a  person  now  ! 

A  flush — it  was  vv-arm  weather — overspread  Miss  Tox's 
face  as,  while  entertaining  these  meditations,  she  turned  her 
head,  and  was  surprised  by  the  reflection  of  her  thoughtful 
image  in  the  chimney-glass.  Another  flush  succeeded  when 
she  saw  a  little   carriage  drive  into   Princess's   Place,   and 


414  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

make  straight  for  her  own  door.  Miss  Tox  arose,  took  up 
her  scissors  hastily,  and  so  coming,  at  last,  to  the  plants,  was 
very  busy  with  them  when  Mrs.  Chick  entered  the  room. 

"  How  is  my  sweetest  friend  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Tox,  with 
open  arms. 

A  little  stateliness  was  mingled  with  Miss  Tox's  sweetest 
friend's  demeanor,  but  she  kissed  Miss  Tox,  and  said, 
"  Lucretia,  thank  you,  I  am  pretty  well.  I  hope  you  are  the 
same.     Hem  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  was  laboring  under  a  peculiar  little  monosylla- 
bic cough  ;  a  sort  of  primer,  or  easy  introduction  to  the  art 
of  coughing. 

"You  call  very  early,  and  how  kind  that  is,  my  dear  !  " 
pursued  Miss  Tox.     "  Now,  have  you  breakfasted  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  have  took 
an  early  breakfast" — the  good  lady  seemed  curious  on  the 
subject  of  Princess's  Place,  and  looking  all  round  it  as  she 
spoke,  "  with  my  brother,  who  has  come  home." 

"  He  is  better,  I  trust,  my  love,"  faltered  Miss  Tox. 

"  He  is  greatly  better,  thank  you.     Hem  !  " 

"  My  dear  Louisa  must  be  careful  of  that  cough,"  remarked 
Miss  Tox. 

"  It's  nothing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "It's  merely 
change  of  weather.     We  must  expect  change." 

"  Of  weather  ?  "  asked  Miss  Tox,  in  her  simplicity. 

"  Of  every  thing,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Of  course  we 
must.  It's  a  world  of  change.  Any  one  would  surprise  me 
very  much,  Lucretia,  and  would  greatly  alter  my  opinion  of 
their  understanding,  if  they  attempted  to  contradict  or  evade 
what  is  so  perfectly  evident.  Change  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  severe  philosophy.  "Why  my  gracious  me, 
what  is  there  that  does  not  change  !  even  the  silk- worm,  who 
I  am  sure  might  be  supposed  not  to  trouble  itself  about  such 
subjects,  changes  into  all  sorts  of  unexpected  things  con- 
tinually."- 

"  My  Louisa,"  said  the  mild  Miss  Tox,  "is  ever  happy  in 
her  illustrations." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  Lucretia,"  returned  Mrs.  Chick,  a  lit- 
tle softened,  "  as  to  say  so,  and  to  think  so,  I  believe.  I 
hope  neither  of  us  may  ever  have  any  cause  to  lessen  our 
opinion  of  the  other,  Lucretia." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  returned  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.  Chick  coughed  as  before,  and  drew  lines  on  the  car- 
pet with  the  ivory  end  of  her  parasol.      Miss  Tox,  who  had 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  415 

experience  of  her  fair  friend,  and  knew  that  under  the  pres- 
sure of  any  sHght  fatigue  or  vexation  she  was  prone  to  a  dis- 
cursive kind  of  irritability,  availed  herself  of  the  pause  to 
change  the  subject. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  but  I 
have  caught  sight  of  the  manly  form  of  Mr.  Chick  in  the 
carriage  ? " 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  but  pray  leave  him 
there.  He  has  his  newspaper,  and  would  be  quite  con- 
tented for  the  next  two  hours.  Go  on  with  your  flowers, 
Lucretia,  and  allow  me  to  sit  here  and  rest." 

^'  My  Louisa  knows,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  *'  that  between 
friends  like  ourselves,  any  approach  to  ceremony  would  be 
out  of  the  question.  Therefore — "  Therefore  Miss  Tox 
finished  the  sentence,  not  in  words  but  action  ;  and  putting 
on  her  gloves  again,  w^hich  she  had  taken  off,  and  arming 
herself  once  more  with  her  scissors,  began  to  snip  and  clip 
among  the  leaves  wdth  microscopic  industry. 

"  Florence  has  returned  home  also,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  sitting  silent  for  some  time,  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
and  her  parasol  sketching  on  the  floor  ;  "  and  really  Flor- 
ence is  a  great  deal  too  old  to  continue  to  lead  that  solitary 
life  to  which  she  has  been  accustomed.  Of  course  she  is. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it.  I  should  have  very  little 
respect,  indeed,  for  any  body  who  could  advocate  a  differ- 
ent opinion.  Whatever  my  wishes  might  be,  I  couM  not 
respect  them.  We  can  not  command  our  feelings  to  such  an 
extent  as  that." 

Miss  Tox  assented,  without  being  particular  as  to  the 
intelligibility  of  the  proposition. 

"If  she's  a  strange  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "and  if  my 
brother  Paul  can  not  feel  perfectly  comfortable  in  her 
society,  after  all  the  sad  things  that  have  happened,  and  all 
the  terrible  disappointments  that  have  been  undergone,  then, 
what  is  the  reply  ?  That  he  must  make  an  effort.  That  he 
is  bound  to  make  an  effort.  We  have  always  been  a  family 
remarkable  for  effort.  Paul  is  at  the  head  of  the  family  ;; 
almost  the  only  representative  of  it  left — for  w^hat  am  I — / 
am  of  no  consequence — " 

"  My  dearest  love,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox. 

Mrs.'  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  w^hich  w^ere,  for  the  moment, 
overflowing  ;  and  proceeded  : 

"  And  consequently  he  is  more  than  ever  bound  to  make 
an  effort.     And  though  his  having  done  so  comes  upon  me 


4i6  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

with  a  sort  of  shock — for  mine  is  a  very  weak  and  fooHsh 
nature  ;  which  is  any  thing  but  a  blessing,  I  am  sure  ;  I 
often  wish  my  heart  was  a  marble  slab  or  a  paving-stone — " 

"  My  sweet  Louisa,"  remonstrated  Miss  Tox  again. 

"  Still,  it  is  a  triumph  to  me  to  know  that  he  is  so  true  to 
himself,  and  to  his  name  of  Dombey  ;  although,  of  course,  I 
always  knew  he  would  be.  I  only  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  a  pause,  '*  that  she  may  be  worthy  of  the  name  too." 

Miss  Tox  filled  a  little  green  watering-pot  from  a  jug,  and 
happening  to  look  up  when  she  had  done  so,  was  so  sur- 
prised by  the  amount  of  expression  Mrs.  Chick  had  conveyed 
into  her  face,  and  was  bestowing  upon  her,  that  she  put  the 
little  watering-pot  on  the  table  for  the  present,  and  sat  down 
near  it. 

"  My  dear  Louisa,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  will  it  be  the  least 
satisfaction  to  you,  if  I  venture  to  observe  in  reference  to 
that  remark,  that  I,  as  a  humble  individual,  think  your  sweet 
niece  in  every  way  most  promising  ?  " 

*'  What  do  you  mean,  Lucretia  ? "  returned  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  increased  stateliness  of  manner.  "  To  what  remark  of 
mine,  my  dear,  do  you  refer  ?  " 

"  Her  being  worthy  of  her  name,  my  love,"  replied  Mrs. 
Tox. 

"  If,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  solemn  patience,  "  I  have  not 
expressed  myself  with  clearness,  Lucretia,  the  fault  of  course 
is  mine.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  reason  why  I  should  express 
myself  at  all,  except  the  intimacy  that  has  subsisted  between 
us,  and  which  I  very  much  hope,  Lucretia — confidently  hope 
— nothing  will  occur  to  disturb.  Because,  why  should  I  do 
any  thing  else  ?  There  is  no  reason  ;  it  would  be  absurd. 
But  I  wish  to  express  myself  clearly,  Lucretia  ;  and  there- 
fore, to  go  back  to  that  remark,  I  must  beg  to  say  that  it 
was  not  intended  to  relate  to  Florence  in  any  way." 

"  Indeed  !  "  returned  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  shortly  and  decisively. 

"  Pardon  me,  my  dear,"  rejoined  her  meek  friend  ;  ''  but  I 
can  not  have  understood  it.     I  fear  I  am  dull." 

Mrs.  Chick  looked  round  the  room  and  over  the  way  ;  at 
the  plants,  at  the  bird,  at  the  watering-pot,  at  almost  every 
thing  within  view,  except  Miss  Tox  ;  and  finally,  dropping 
her  glance  upon  Miss  Tox  for  a  moment,  on  its  way  to  the 
ground,  said,  looking  meanwhile  with  elevated  eyebrows  at 
the  carpet  : 

*'  When  I   speak,    Lucretia,  of  her  being  worthy  of  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  417 

name,  I  speak  of  my  brother  Paul's  second  wife.  I  believe 
I  have  already  said,  in  effect,  if  not  in  the  very  words  I  now 
use,  that  it  is  his  intention  to  marry  a  second  wife." 

Miss  Tox  left  her  seat  in  a  hurry,  and  returned  to  her 
plants  ;  clipping  among  the  stems  and  leaves  with  as  little 
favor  as  a  barber  working  at  so   m.any  pauper  heads  of  hair. 

"  Whether  she  will  be  fully  sensible  of  the  distinction  con- 
ferred upon  her,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  lofty  tone,  "  is  quite 
another  question.  I  hope  she  may  be.  We  are  bound  to 
think  well  of  one  another  in  this  world,  and  I  hope  she  may 
be.  I  have  not  been  advised  with  myself.  If  I  had  been 
advised  with,  I  have  no  doubt  my  advice  would  have  been 
cavalierly  received,  and  therefore  it  is  infinitely  better  as  it  is. 
I  much  prefer  it  as  it  is." 

Miss  Tox,  with  head  bent  down,  still  clipped  among  the 
plants.  Mrs.  Chick,  with  energetic  shaking  of  her  own  head 
from  time  to  time,  continued  to  hold  forth,  as  if  in  defiance 
of  somebody. 

"  If  my  brother  Paul  had  consulted  with  me,  which  he 
sometimes  does — or  rather  sometimes  used  to  do  ;  for  he  will 
naturally  do  that  no  more  now,  and  this  is  a  circumstance 
which  I  regard  as  a  relief  from  responsibility,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  hysterically,  ''  for  I  thank  heaven  I  am  not  jeal- 
ous— "  here  Mrs.  Chick  again  shed  tears  ;  "  if  my  brother 
Paul  had  come  to  me  and  had  said,  '  Louisa,  what  kind  of 
qualities  would  you  advise  me  to  look  out  for  in  a  wife  ? '  I 
should  certainly  have  answered,  '  Paul,  you  must  have  family, 
you  must  have  beauty,  you  must  have  dignity,  you  must  have 
connection.'  Those  are  the  words  I  should  have  used.  You 
might  have  led  me  to  the  block  immediately  afterward,"  said 
Mrs.  Chick,  as  if  that  consequence  were  highly  probable, 
"  but  I  should  have  used  them.  I  should  have  said,  '  Paul  ! 
You  to  marry  a  second  time  without  family  !  You  to  marry 
without  beauty  !  You  to  marry  without  dignity  !  You  to 
marry  without  connection  !  There  is  nobody  in  the  world, 
not  mad,  who  could  dream  of  daring  to  entertain  such  a 
preposterous  idea  !'  " 

Miss  Tox  stopped  clipping  ;  and  with  her  head  among 
the  plants,  listened  attentively.  Perhaps  Miss  Tox  thought 
there  was  hope  in  this  exordium,  and  the  warmth  of  Mrs. 
Chick. 

"I  should  have  adopted  this  course  of  argument," 
observed  the  discreet  lady,  "  because  I  trust  I  am  not  a 
fool.     I  make  no   claim  to  be  considered  a  person  of  supe- 


4t8  DOMBEY  and  SON. 

rior  intellect — though  I  believe  some  people  have  beei^  extra- 
ordinary enough  to  consider  me  so  ;  one  so  little  humored 
as  I  am,  would  very  soon  be  disabused  of  any  such  notion  ; 
but  I  trust  I  am  not  a  downright  fool.  And  to  tell  me," 
said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  ineffable  disdain,  *'  that  my  brother 
Paul  Dombey  could  ever  contemplate  the  possibility  of 
uniting  himself  to  any  body — I  don't  care  who  " — she  was 
more  sharp  and  emphatic  in  that  short  clause  than  in  any 
other  part  of  her  discourse — "  not  possessing  these  requisites 
would  be  to  insult  what  understanding  I  have  got,  as  much 
as  if  I  was  to  be  told  that  I  was  born  and  bred  an  elephant, 
which  I  tnay  be  told  next,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  resigna- 
tion.    "  It  wouldn't  surprise  me  at  all.     I  expect  it." 

In  the  moment's  silence  that  ensued,  Mis  Tox's  scissors 
gave  a  feeble  clip  or  two  ;  but  Miss  Tox's  face  was  still 
invisible,  and  Miss  Tox's  morning-gown  was  agitated.  Mrs. 
Chick  looked  sideways  at  her  through  the  intervening  plants; 
and  went  on  to  say,  in  a  tone  of  bland  conviction,  and  as  one 
dwelling  on  a  point  of  fact  that  hardly  required  to  be  stated: 

"  Therefore,  of  course  my  brother  Paul  has  done  what  was 
to  be  expected  of  him,  and  what  any  body  might  have  fore- 
seen he  would  do  if  he  entered  the  marriage  state  again.  I 
confess  it  takes  me  rather  by  surprise,  however  gratifying  ; 
because  when  Paul  went  out  of  town  I  had  no  idea  at  all  that 
he  would  form  any  attachment  out  of  town,  and  he  certainly 
had  no  attachment  when  he  left  here.  However,  it  seems  to 
be  extremely  desirable  in  every  point  of  view.  I  have  no 
doubt  the  mother  is  a  most  genteel  and  elegant  creature,  and 
I  have  no  right  whatever  to  dispute  the  policy  of  her  living 
with  them  ;  which  is  Paul's  affair,  not  mine — and  as  to  Paul's 
choice  herself,  I  have  only  seen  her  picture  yet,  but  that  is 
beautiful  indeed.  Her  name  is  beautiful  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  shaking  her  head  with  energy,  and  arranging  herself 
in  her  chair;  *'  Edith  is  at  once  uncommon,  as  it  strikes  me, 
and  distinguished.  Consequently,  Lucretia,  I  have  no  doubt 
you  will  be  happy  to  hear  that  the  marriage  is  to  take  place 
immediately — of  course  you  will;"  great  emphasis  again  ; 
"  and  that  you  are  delighted  with  this  change  in  the  condi- 
tion of  my  brother,  who  has  shown  you  a  great  deal  of  pleas- 
ant attention  at  various  times." 

Miss  Tox  made  no  verbal  answer,  but  took  up  the  little 
watering-pot  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  looked  vacantly 
round  as  if  considering  what  article  of  furniture  would  be 
improved  by  the  contents.     The  room  door  opening  at  this 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  419 

crisis  of  Miss  Tox's  feelings,  she  started,  laughed  aloud,  and 
fell  into  the  arms  of  the  person  entering  ;  happily  insensible 
alike  of  Mrs.  Chick's  indignant  countenance,  and  of  the 
major  at  his  window  over  the  way,  who  had  his  double-bar- 
reled eye-glass  in  full  action,  and  whose  face  and  figure  were 
dilated  with  Mephistophelean  joy. 

Not  so  the  expatriated  native,  amazed  supporter  of  Miss 
Tox's  swooning  form,  v/ho,  coming  straight  up-stairs,  with  a 
polite  inquiry  touching  Miss  Tox's  health  (in  exact  pursuance 
of  the  m.ajor's  malicious  instructions),  had  accidentally 
arrived  in  the  very  nick  of  time  to  catch  the  delicate  burden 
in  his  arms,  and  to  receive  the  contents  of  the  little  watering- 
pot  in  his  shoe  ;  both  of  which  circumstances,  coupled  with 
his  consciousness  of  being  closely  watched  by  the  wrathful 
major,  who  had  threatened  the  usual  penalty  in  regard  to 
every  bone  in  his  skin  in  case  of  any  failure,  combined  to 
render  him  a  moving  spectacle  of  mental  and  bodily  distress. 

For  some  moments  this  afflicted  foreigner  remained  clasp- 
ing Miss  Tox  to  his  heart,  with  an  energy  of  action  in 
remarkable  opposition  to  his  disconcerted  face,  while  the 
poor  lady  trickled  slowly  down  upon  him  the  very  last  sprink- 
lings of  the  little  watering-pot,  as  if  he  were  a  delicate  exotic 
(which  indeed  he  was),  and  might  be  almost  expected  to 
blow  while  the  gentle  rain  descended.  Mrs.  Chick,  at  length 
recovering  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  interpose,  com- 
manded him  to  drop  Miss  Tox  upon  the  sofa  and  withdraw  ; 
and  the  exile  promptly  obeying,  she  applied  herself  to  pro- 
mote Miss  Tox's  recovery. 

But  none  of  that  gentle  concern  which  usually  character- 
izes the  daughters  of  Eve  in  their  tending  of  each  other  ; 
none  of  that  freemasonry  in  fainting,  by  which  they  are  gen- 
erally bound  together  in  a  mysterious  bond  of  sisterhood  ; 
was  Visible  in  Mrs.  Chick's  demeanor.  Rather  like  the 
executioner  who  restores  the  victim  to  sensation  previous  to 
proceeding  with  the  torture  (or  was  wont  to  do  so  in  the  good 
old  times  for  which  all  true  men  wear  perpetual  mxOurning), 
did  Mrs.  Chick  administer  the  smelling  bottle,  the  slapping 
on  the  hands,  the  dashing  of  cold  water  on  the  face,  and  the 
other  proved  remedies.  And  when  at  length  Miss  Tox 
opened  her  eyes,  and  gradually  became  restored  to  animation 
and  consciousness,  Mrs.  Chick  drew  off  as  from  a  criminal, 
and  reversing  the  precedent  of  the  murdered  king  of  Den- 
mark, regarded  her  more  in  anger  than  in  sorrow. 

"  Lucretia  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  I  will  not  attempt  to  dis- 


420  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

guise  what  I  feel.  My  eyes  are  opened  all  at  once.  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  this  if  a  saint  had  told  it  to  me," 

*'  I  am  foolish  to  give  way  to  faintness,"  Miss  Tox  faltered. 
"I  shall  be  better  presently." 

"  You  will  be  better  presently,  Lucretia  !  "  repeated  Mrs. 
Chick,  with  exceeding  scorn.  "  Do  you  suppose  I  am  blind? 
Do  you  imagine  I  am  in  my  second  childhood  ?  No,  Lucre- 
tia !     I  am  obliged  to  you  !  " 

Miss  Tox  directed  an  imploring,  helpless  kind  of  look 
toward  her  friend,  and  put  her  handkerchief  before  her  face. 

'*  If  any  one  had  told  me  this  yesterday,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
with  majesty,  "  or  even  half  an  hour  ago,  I  should  have  been 
tempted,  I  almost  believe,  to  strike  them  to  the  earth. 
Lucretia  Tox,  my  eyes  are  open  to  you  all  at  once.  The 
scales,  "  here  Mrs.  Chick  cast  down  an  imaginary  pair,  such 
as  are  commonly  used  in  grocers'  shops,  "  have  fallen  from 
my  sight.  The  blindness  of  my  confidence  is  past,  Lucretia. 
It  has  been  abused  and  played  upon,  and  evasion  is  quite  out 
of  the  question  now,  I  assure  you." 

"  Oh  !  to  what  do  you  allude  so  cruelly,  my  love  ?  "  asked 
Miss  Tox  through  her  tears. 

"Lucretia,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "ask  your  own  heart.  I 
must  entreat  you  not  to  address  me  by  any  such  familiar 
term  as  you  have  just  used,  if  you  please.  I  have  some  self- 
respect  left,  though  you  may  think  otherwise." 

"  Oh,  Louisa  !  "  cried  Miss  Tox.  "  How  can  you  speak  to 
me  like  that  ?  " 

"  How  can  I  speak  to  you  like  that  ?  "  retorted  Mrs.  Chick, 
who,  in  default  of  having  any  particular  argument  to  sustain 
herself  upon,  relied  principally  upon  such  repetitions  for 
her  most  withering  effects.  "  Like  that  !  You  may  well  say 
like  that,  indeed." 

"  The  idea  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick,  "  of  you  having  basked 
at  my  brother's  fireside,  like  a  serpent,  and  wound  yourself, 
through  me,  almost  into  his  confidence,  Lucretia,  that  you 
might,  in  secret,  entertain  designs  upon  him,  and  dare  to 
aspire  to  contemplate  the  possibility  of  his  uniting  himself 
to  you  !  Why,  it  is  an  idea,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  sar- 
castic dignity,  "  the  absurdity  of  which  almost  relieves  its 
treachery." 

"  Pray,  Louisa,"  urged  Miss  Tox,  "  do  not  say  such 
dreadful  things." 

"  Dreadful  things  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Chick.  "  Dreadful 
things  !     Is  it  not  a  fact,  Lucretia,  that  you   have  just  now 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  421 

been  unable    to  command   your   feelings  even   before  me, 

whose  eyes  you  had  so  completely  closed?  " 

''  I  have  made  no  complaint,"  sobbed  Miss  Tox.     "  I  have 

said  nothing.     If  I  have  been  a  little  overpowered  by  your 

news,     Louisa,  and  have  ever  had   any  lingering   thought 

that  Mr.  Dombey  was  inclined   to  be  particular  toward  me, 

surely  you  wall  not  condemn  me." 

"  She  is  going  to  say,"   said  Mrs.  Chick,  addressing  herself 

to  the  whole  of  the  furniture,  in  a  comprehensive  glance  of 

resignation  and  appeal  ''  she   is  going   to   say — I  know  it — 

that  I  have    encouraged  her  !  " 

"  I   don't  wish  to   exchange    reproaches,    dear  Louisa," 

sobbed  Miss  Tox.     "Nor  do  Iwdsh  to  complain.     But,   in 

my  own  defense — " 

"Yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Chick,  looking  round  the  room   wath  a 

prophetic  smile,  "  that's  w^hat  she's  going  to  say.     I  knew  it. 

You  had  better  say  it.     Say  it  openly  !    Be   open,  Lucretia 

Tox,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  desperate  sternness,  "  whatever 

you  are." 

"  In  my  own  defense,"   faltered  Miss  Tox,  "  and   only  in 

my  own  defense  against  your  unkind  words,  my  dear  Louisa, 

I  woufd  merely  ask  you  if  you  haven't   often  favored  such  a 

fancy,  and  even  said  it  might  happen,  for  any  thing  we  could 

tell  ?  " 

"  There  is  a  point,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  rising,  not  as   if  she 

were  going  to  stop  at  the  floor,  but  as  if  she  were  about  to 
soar  up,  high,  into  her  native  skies,  "  beyond  which  endur- 
ance becomes  ridiculous,  if  not  culpable.  I  can  bear  much, 
but  not  too  much.  What  spell  was  on  me  when  I  came  into 
this  house  this  day,  I  don't  know^  ;  but  I  had  a  presentiment 
— a  dark  presentiment,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  wath  a  shiver, 
"  that  something  was  going  to  happen.  Well  may  I  have 
had  that  foreboding,  Lucretia,  when  my  confidence  of  many 
years  is  destroyed  in  an  instant,  when  my  eyes  are  opened 
all  at  once,  and  when  I  find  you  revealed  in  your  true  colors. 
Lucretia,  I  have  been  mistaken  in  you.  It  is  better  for  us 
both  that  this  subject  should  end  here.  I  wish  you  well, 
and  I  shall  ever  wdsh  you  well.  But,  as  an  individual  who 
desires  to  be  true  to  herself  in  her  own  poor  position,  w^hat- 
ever  that  position  may  be,  or  may  not  be — and  as  the  sister 
of  my  bro'ther — and  as  the  sister-in-law  of  my  brother's  wife 
— and  as  a  connection  by  marriage  of  my  brother's  wife's 
mother— may  I  be  permitted  to  add,  as  a  Dombey  ?— I  can 
w'lshyou  nothing  else  but  good-mOining." 


422  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

These  words,  delivered  with  cutting  suavity,  tempered 
and  chastened  by  a  lofty  air  of  moral  rectitude,  carried  the 
speaker  to  the  door.  There  she  inclined  her  head  in  a 
ghostly  and  statue-like  manner,  and  so  withdrew  to  her 
carriage,  to  seek  comfort  and  consolation  in  the  arms  of 
Mr.  Chick,  her  lord. 

Figuratively  speaking,  that  is  to  say  ;  for  the  arms  of  Mr. 
Chick  were  full  of  his  newspaper.  Neither  did  that  gentleman 
address  his  eyes  toward  his  wife  otherwise  than  by  stealth. 
Neither  did  he  offer  any  consolation  whatever.  In  short,  he 
sat  reading,  and  humming  fag  ends  of  tunes,  and  sometimes 
glancing  furtively  at  her  without  delivering  himself  of  a 
word,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Chick  sat  swelling  and  bridling, 
and  tossing  her  head,  as  if  she  were  still  repeating  that 
solemn  formula  of  farewell  to  Lucretia  Tox.  At  length  she 
said  aloud,  "  Oh,  the  extent  to  which  her  eyes  had  been 
opened  that  day  !  " 

"  To  which  your  eyes  have  been  opened,  my  dear  !  " 
repeated  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick.  ''  If  you  can 
bear  to  see  me  in  this  state,  and  not  ask  me  what  the  matter 
is,  you  had  better  hold  your  tongue  forever." 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Chick. 

''  To  think,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  in  a  state  of  soliloquy, 
"  that  she  should  ever  have  conceived  the  base  idea  of  con- 
necting herself  with  our  family  by  a  marriage  with  Paul  ! 
To  think  that  when  she  was  playing  at  horses  with  that  dear 
child  who  is  now  in  his  grave — I  never  liked  it  at  the  time 
— she  should  have  hidden  such  a  double-faced  design  ! 
I  wonder  she  was  never  afraid  that  something  would  happen 
to  her.     She  is  fortunate  if  nothing  does." 

"  I  really  thought,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Chick,  slowly,  after 
rubbing  the  bridge  of  his  nose  for  some  time  with  his  news- 
paper, "  that  you  had  gone  on  the  same  tack  yourself,  all 
along,  until  this  morning  ;  and  had  thought  it  would  be  a 
convenient  thing  enough,  if  it  could  have  been  brought 
about." 

Mrs.  Chick  instantly  burst  into  tears,  and  told  Mr.  Chick 
that  if  he  wished  to  trample  upon  her  with  his  boots,  he  had 
better  do  it. 

"  But  with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
after  abandoning  herself  to  her  feelings  for  some  minutes,  to 
Mr.  Chick's  great  terror,     "  I  can  bear  to  resign  Paul's  con- 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  4^3 

fidence  in  favor  of  one  who,  I  hope  and  trust,  may  be  deserv- 
ing of  it,  and  with  whom  he  has  a  perfect  right  to  replace 
poor  Fanny  if  he  chooses  ;  I  can  bear  to  be  informed,  in 
Paul's  cool  manner,  of  such  a  change  in  his  plans,  and  never 
to  be  consulted  until  all  is  settled  and  determined  ;  but 
deceit  I  can  7iot  bear,  and  with  Lucretia  Tox  I  have  done. 
It  is  better  as  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  piously  :  "  much 
better.  It  would  have  been  a  long  time  before  I  could  have 
accommodated  myself  comfortably  with  her,  after  this  ;  and 
I  really  don't  know,  as  Paul  is  going  to  be  very  grand,  and 
these  are  people  of  condition,  that  she  would  have  been 
quite  presentable,  and  might  not  have  compromised  myself. 
There's  a  providence  in  every  thing  ;  every  thing  works  for 
the  best  ;  I  have  been  tried  to-day,  but,  upon  the  whole,  I 
don't  regret  it." 

In  which  Christian  spirit,  Mrs.  Chick  dried  her  eyes,  and 
smoothed  her  lap,  and  sat  as  became  a  person  calm  under  a 
great  wrong.  Mr.  Chick,  feeling  his  unworthiness  no  doubt, 
took  an  early  opportunity  of  being  set  down  at  a  street 
corner  and  walking  away,  whistling,  with  his  shoulders  very 
much  raised,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

While  poor  excommunicated  Miss  Tox,  who,  if  she  were  a 
fawner  and  toad-eater,  was  at  least  an  honest  and  a  constant 
one,  and  had  ever  borne  a  faithful  friendship  toward  her 
impeacher,  and  had  been  truly  absorbed  and  swallowed  up 
in  devotion  to  the  magnificence  of  Mr.  Dombey— while  poor 
excommunicated  Miss  Tox  watered  her  plants  with  her 
tears,  and  felt  that  it  was  winter  in  Princess's  Place. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  INTERVAL  BEFORE  MARRIAGE. 

Although  the  enchanted  house  was  no  more,  and  the 
working  world  had  broken  into  it,  and  was_  hammering  and 
crashing  and  tramping  up  and  down  stairs  all  day  long, 
keeping  Diogenes  in  an  incessant  paroxysm  of  barking,  from 
sunrise  to  sunset — evidently  convinced  that  his  enemy  had 
got  the  better  of  him  at  last,  and  was  then  sacking  the 
premises  in  triumphant  defiance— there  was,  at  first,  no 
other  great  change  in  the  method  of  Florence's  life.  At 
night,  when  the  work-people  went  away,  the  house  was 
dreary  and  deserted  again  ;  and  Florence,  listening  to  their 


424  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

voices  echoing  through  the  hall  and  staircase  as  they 
departed,  pictured  to  herself  the  cheerful  homes  to  which 
they  were  returning,  and  the  children  who  were  waiting  for 
them,  and  was  glad  to  think  that  they  were  merry  and  well 
pleased  to  go. 

She  welcomed  back  the  evening  silence  as  an  old  friend, 
but  it  came  now  with  an  altered  face,  and  looked  more 
kindly  on  her.  Fresh  hope  was  in  it.  The  beautiful  lady 
who  had  soothed  and  caressed  her,  in  the  very  room  in 
which  her  heart  had  been  so  wrung,  was  a  spirit  of  promise 
to  her.  Soft  shadows  of  the  bright  life  dawning,  when  her 
father's  affection  should  be  gradually  won,  and  all,  or  much 
should  be  restored,  of  what  she  had  lost  on  the  dark  day 
when  a  mother's  love  had  faded  with  a  mother's  last  breath 
on  her  cheek,  moved  about  her  in  the  twilight  and  were 
welcome  company.  Peeping  at  the  rosy  children  her 
neighbors,  it  was  a  new  and  precious  sensation  to  think  that 
they  might  soon  speak  together  and  know  each  other  ;  when 
she  would  not  fear,  as  of  old,  to  shov/  herself  before  them, 
lest  they  should  be  grieved  to  see  her  in  her  black  dress  sit- 
ting there  alone  ! 

In  her  thoughts  of  her  new  mother,  and  in  the  love  and 
trust  overflowing  her  pure  heart  toward  her,  Florence  loved 
her  own  dead  mother  more  and  more.  She  had  no  fear  of 
setting  up  a  rival  in  her  breast.  The  new  flower  sprang  from 
the  deep-planted  and  long-cherished  root,  she  knew.  Every 
gentle  word  that  had  fallen  from  the  lips  of  the  beautiful 
lady  sounded  to  Florence  like  an  echo  of  the  voice  long 
hushed  and  silent.  How  could  she  love  that  memory  less 
for  living  tenderness,  when  it  was  the  memory  of  all  parental 
tenderness  and  love  ! 

Florence  was,  one  day,  sitting  reading  in  her  room,  and 
thinking  of  the  lady  and  her  promised  visit  soon— for  her 
book  turned  on  a  kindred  subject — when,  raising  her  eyes, 
she  saw  her  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Mamma  !  "  cried  Florence,  joyfully  meeting  her. 
"  Come  again  !  " 

**  Not  mamma  yet,"  returned  the  lady,  with  a  serious 
smile,  as  she  encircled  Florence's  neck  with  her  arm. 

*'  But  very  soon  to  be,"  cried  Florence. 

"  Very  soon  now,  Florence  ;  very  soon." 

Edith  bent  her  head  a  Httle,  so  as  to  press  the  blooming 
cheek  of  Florence  against  her  own,  and  for  some  few 
moments  remained  thus  silent.     There  was  something  so 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  425 

very  tender  in  her  manner,  that  Florence  was  even  more 
sensible  of  it  than  on  the  first  occasion  of  their  meeting. 

She  led  Florence  to  a  chair  beside  her,  and  sat  down  ; 
Florence  looking  in  her  face,  quite  wondering  at  its  beauty, 
and  willingly  leaving  her  hand  in  hers. 

"  Have  you  been  alone,  Florence,  since  I  was  here  last  ?" 

*'  Oh  yes  !  "  smiled  Florence,  hastily. 

She  hesitated  and  cast  down  her  eyes  ;  for  her  new 
mamma  \ws  very  earnest  in  her  look,  and  the  look  was 
intently  and  thoughtfully  fixed  upon  her  face. 

"  I — I — am  used  to  be  alone,"  said  Florence.  "  I  don't 
mind  it  at  all.  Di  and  I  pass  whole  days  together,  some- 
times." Florence  might  have  said,  whole  weeks  and 
months. 

''  Is  Di  your  maid,  love  ? " 

"  My  dog,  mamma,"  said  Florence,  laughing.     "  Susan  is 

my  maid." 

*'  And  these  are  your  rooms,"  said  Edith,  lookmg  round. 
"  I  was  not  shown  these  rooms  the  other  day.  We  must 
have  them  improved,  Florence.  They  shall  be  made  the 
prettiest  in  the  house." 

"  If  I  might  change  them,  mamma,"  returned  Florence, 
"  there  is  one  up-stairs  I  should  like  much  better." 

''  Is  this  not    high  enough,    dear    girl  ? "    asked   Edith, 

smiling. 

"  The  other  was  my  brother's  room,"  said  Florence,  and 
I  am  very  fond  of  it.  I  would  have  spoken  to  papa  about 
it  when  I  came  home,  and  found  the  workmen  here,  and 
every  thing  changing  ;  but — " 

Florence  dropped  her  eyes,  lest  the  same  look  should 
make  her  falter  again. 

"  —but  I  was  afraid  it  might  distress  him  ;  and  as  you 
said  you  would  be  here  again  soon,  mamma,  and  are  the 
mistress  of  every  thing,  1  determined  to  take  courage  and 
ask  you." 

Edith  sat  looking  at  her,  with  brilliant  eyes  intent  upon 
her  face,  until  Florence  raising  her  own,  she,  in  her  turn, 
withdrew  her  gaze,  and  turned  it  on  the  ground.  It  was 
then  that  Florence  thought  how  different  this  lady's  beauty 
was  from  what  she  had  supposed.  She  had  thought  it  of  a 
proud  and  lofty  kind  ;  yet  her  manner  was  so  subdued  and 
gentle  that,  if  she  had  been  of  Florence's  own  age  and  char- 
acter, it  scarcely  could  have  invited  confidence  more. 

Except  when  a  constrained   and   singular  reserve  crept 


426  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

over  her  ;  and  then  she  seemed  (but  Florence  hardly  under- 
stood this,  though  she  could  not  choose  but  notice  it,  and 
think  about  it),  as  if  she  were  humbled  before  Florence,  and 
ill  at  ease.  When  she  had  said  that  she  was  not  her  mamma 
yet,  and  when  Florence  had  called  her  the  mistress  of  every 
thing  there,  this  change  in  her  was  quick  and  startling  ;  and 
now,  while  the  eyes  of  Florence  rested  on  her  face,  she  sat 
as  though  she  would  have  shrunk  and  hidden  from  her 
rather  than  as  one  about  to  love  and  cherish  her,  in  right  of 
such  a  near  connection. 

She  gave  Florence  her  ready  promise  about  her  new  room, 
and  said  she  would  give  directions  about  it  herself.  She 
then  asked  some  questions  concerning  poor  Paul,  and  when 
they  had  sat  in  conversation  for  some  time,  told  Florence 
she  had  come  to  take  her  to  her  own  home. 

"  We  have  come  to  London  now,  my  mother  and  I,"  said 
Edith,  "  and  you  shall  stay  with  us  until  I  am  married.  I 
wish  that  we  should  know  and   trust  each  other,  Florence." 

'*  You  are  very  kind  to  me,"  said  Florence,  ''  dear  mamma. 
How  much  I  thank  you  !  " 

"  Let  me  say  now,  for  it  may  be  the  best  opportunity," 
continued  Edith,  looking  round  to  see  that  they  were  quite 
alone,  and  speaking  in  a  lower  voice,  "  that  when  I  am  mar- 
ried, and  have  gone  away  for  some  weeks,  I  shall  be  easier 
at  heart  if  you  will  come  home  here.  No  matter  who  invites 
you  to  stay  elsewhere,  come  home  here.  It  is  better  to  be 
alone  than — what  I  would  say  is,"  she  added,  checking  her- 
self, "  that  I  know  well  you  are  best  at  home,  dear  Florence." 

"  I  v/ill  come  home  on  the  very  day,  mamma." 

"  Do  so.  I  rely  on  that  promise.  Now  prepare  to  come 
with  me,  dear  girl.  You  will  find  me  down- stairs  when  you 
are  ready." 

Slowly  and  thoughtfully  did  Edith  wander  alone  through 
the  mansion  of  which  she  was  soon  to  be  the  lady  ;  and 
little  heed  took  she  of  all  the  elegance  and  splendor  it  began 
to  display.  The  same  indomitable  haughtiness  of  soul,  the 
same  proud  scorn  expressed  in  eye  and  lip,  the  same  fierce 
beauty,  only  tamed  by  a  sense  of  its  own  little  worth,  and  of  the 
little  worth  of  every  thing  around  it,  went  through  the  grand 
saloons  and  halls,  that  had  got  loose  among  the  shady  trees, 
and  raged  and  rent  themselves.  The  mimic  roses  on  the 
walls  and  floors  were  set  round  with  sharp  thorns,  that  tore 
her  breast  ;  in  every  scrap  of  gold  so  dazzling  to  the  eye, 
she  saw  some    hateful   atom  of  her    purchase-money ;    the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  427 

broad  high  mirrors  showed  her,  at  full  length,  a  woman  with 
a  noble  quality  yet  dwelling  in  her  nature,  who  was  too  false 
to  her  better  self,  and  too  debased  and  lost  to  save  herself. 
She  believed  that  all  this  was  so  plain,  more  or  less,  to  all 
eyes,  that  she  had  no  resource  or  power  of  self-assertion  but 
in  pride  ;  and  with  this  pride,  which  tortured  her  own  heart 
night  and  day,  she  fought  her  fate'  out,  braved  it,  and 
defied  it. 

Was  this  the  woman  whom  Florence — an  innocent  girl, 
strong  only  in  her  earnestness  and  simple  truth — could  so 
impress  and  quell,  that  by  her  side  she  was  another  creature, 
with  her  tempest  of  passion  hushed,  and  her  very  pride  itself 
subdued  ?  Was  this  the  woman  who  now  sat  beside  her  in  a 
carriage,  with  her  arms  entwined,  and  who,  while  she  courted 
and  entreated  her  to  love  and  trust  her,  drew  her  fair  head 
to  nestle  on  her  breast,  and  would  have  laid  down  life  to 
shield  it  from  wrong  or  harm  ? 

Oh,  Edith  !  it  were  well  to  die,  indeed,  at  such  a  time  ! 
Better  and  happier  far,  perhaps,  to  die  so,  Edith,  than  to  live 
on  to  the  end  ! 

The  Honorable  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  was  thinking  of  any 
thing  rather  than  of  such  sentiments — for,  lik-?  many  genteel 
persons  who  have  existed  at  various  times,  she  set  her  face 
against  death  altogether,  and  objected  to  the  mention  of 
any  such  low  and  leveling  upstart — had  borrowed  a  house 
in  Brook  Street,  Grosvenor  Square,  from  a  stately  relative 
(one  of  the  Feenix  brood),  who  was  out  of  town,  and  who 
did  not  object  to  lending  it,  in  the  handsomest  manner,  for 
nuptial  purposes,  as  the  loan  implied  his  final  release  and 
acquittance  from  all  further  loans  and  gifts  to  Mrs.  Skewton 
and  her  daughter.  It  being  necessary  for  the  credit  of  the 
family  to  make  a  handsome  appearance  at  such  a  time,  Mrs. 
Skewton,  with  the  assistance  of  an  accommodating  trades- 
man resident  in  the  parish  of  Marylebone,  who  lent  out  all 
sorts  of  articles  to  the  nobility  and  gentry,  from  a  service  of 
plate  to  an  army  of  footmen,  clapped  into  this  house  a  silver- 
headed  butler  (who  was  charged  extra  on  that  account,  as 
having  the  appearance  of  an  ancient  family  retainer),  two 
very  tall  young  men  in  livery,  and  a  select  staff  of  kitchen- 
servants  ;  so  that  a  legend  arose,  down-stairs,  that  Withers 
the  page,  released  at  once  from  his  numerous  household 
duties,  and  from  the  propulsion  of  the  wheeled-chair  (incon- 
sistent with  the  metropolis),  had  been  several  times  observed 
to  rub  his  eyes  and  pinch  his  limbs,  as  if  he  misdoubted  his 


428  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

having  overslept  himself  at  the  Leamington  milkman's,  and 
being  still  in  a  celestial  dream.  A  variety  of  requisites  in 
plate  and  china  being  also  conveyed  to  the  same  establish- 
ment from  the  same  convenient  source,  with  several  miscel- 
laneous articles,  including  a  neat  chariot  and  a  pair  of  bays, 
Mrs.  Skewton  cushioned  herself  on  the  principal  sofa,  in  the 
Cleopatra  attitude,  and  held  her  court  in  fair  state. 

*' And  how,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  on  the  entrance  of  her 
daughter  and  her  charge,  "  is  my  charming  Florence  ? 
You  must  come  and  kiss  me,  Florence,  if  you  please,  my 
love." 

Florence  was  timidly  stooping  to  pick  out  a  place  in  the 
white  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  face,  when  that  lady  presented 
her  ear,  and  relieved  her  of  her  difficulty. 

"  Edith,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  positively,  I — 
stand  a  little  more  in  the  light,  my  sweetest  Florence, 
for  a  moment." 

Florence  blushingly  complied. 

"You  don't  remember,  dearest  Edith,"  said  her  mother, 
"  what  you  were  when  you  were  about  the  same  age  as  our 
exceedingly  precious  Florence,  or  a  few  years  younger  ?  " 

"  I  have  long  forgotten,  mother." 

"  For  positively,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  I  do 
think  that  I  see  a  decided  resemblance  to  what  you  were 
then,  in  our  extremely  fascinating  young  friend.  And  it 
shows,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  a  lower  voice,  which  conveyed 
her  opinion  that  Florence  was  in  a  very  unfinished  state, 
"  what  cultivation  will  do." 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  was  Edith's  stern  reply. 

Her  mother  eyed  her  sharply  for  a  moment,  and  feeling 
herself  on  unsafe  ground,  said,  as  a  diversion  : 

"  My  charming  Florence,  you  must  come  and  kiss  me 
once  more,  if  you  please,  my  love." 

Florence  complied,  of  course,  and  again  imprinted  her 
lips  on  Mrs.  Skewton's  ear. 

'*  And  you  have  heard,  no  doubt,  my  darling  pet,"  said 
Mrs.  Skewton,  detaining  her  hand,  "  that  your  papa,  whom 
we  all  perfectly  adore  and  dote  upon,  is  to  be  married  to  my 
dearest  Edith  this  day  week." 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  very  soon,"  returned  Florence,  "  but 
not  exactly  when." 

*'  My  darling  Edith,"  urged  her  mother,  gayly  "  is  it  pos- 
sible you  have  not  told  Florence  ?" 

"  Why  should  I  tell  Florence  '  "  she  returned,  so  suddenly 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  429 

and  harshly,  that  Florence  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  the 
same  voice. 

Mrs.  Skewton  then  told  Florence,  as  another  and  safer 
diversion,  that  her  father  was  coming  to  dinner,  and  that  he 
would  no  doubt  be  charmingly  surprised  to  see  her  ;  as  he 
had  spoken  last  night  of  dressing  in  the  city,  and  had  known 
nothing  of  Edith's  design,  the  execution  of  which,  according 
to  Mrs.  Skewton's  expectation,  would  throw  him  into  a  per- 
fect ecstasy.  Florence  was  troubled  to  hear  this  ;  and  her 
distress  became  so  keen,  as  the  dinner-hour  approached, 
that  if  she  had  known  how  to  frame  an  entreaty  to  be  suf- 
fered to  return  home,  without  involving  her  father  in  her 
explanation  she  would  hate  hurried  back  on  foot,  bareheaded, 
breathless,  and  alone,  rather  than  incur  the  risk  of  meeting 
his  displeasure. 

As  the  time  drew  nearer,  she  could  hardly  breathe.  She 
dared  not  approach  a  window,  lest  he  should  see  her  from 
the  street.  She  dared  not  go  up  stairs  to  hide  her  emotion, 
lest,  in  passing  out  at  the  door,  she  should  meet  him  unex- 
pectedly ;  besides  which  dread,  she  felt  as  though  she  never 
could  come  back  again  if  she  were  summoned  to  his  presence. 
In  this  conflict  of  her  fears,  she  was  sitting  by  Cleopatra's 
couch,  endeavoring  to  understand  and  to  reply  to  the  bald 
discourse  of  that  lady,  when  she  heard  his  foot  upon  the  stair. 

''I  hear  him  now'!"  cried  Florence,  starting.  "  He  is 
coming  !  " 

Cleopatra,  who  in  her  juvenility  was  always  playfully  dis- 
posed, and  who  in  her  self-engrossment  did  not  trouble  her- 
self about  the  nature  of  this  agitation,  pushed  Florence 
behind  her  couch,  and  dropped  a  shawl  over  her,  preparatory 
to  giving  Mr.  Dornbey  a  rapture  of  surprise.  It  was  so  quickly 
done,  that  in  a  moment  Florence  heard  his  awful  step  in  the 
room. 

He  saluted  his  intended  mother-in-law  and  his  mtended 
bride.  The  strange  sound  of  his  voice  thrilled  through  the 
whole  frame  of  his  child. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  come  here  and  tell 
me  how  your  pretty  Florence  is." 

"  Florence  is  very  well,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing 
toward  the  couch. 

"At  home?" 

*'  At  home,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  with  bewitching 
vivacity  ;  "  now  are  you  sure  you  are  not  deceiving  me  ?     X 


430  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

don't  know  what  my  dearest  Edith  will  say  to  me  when  I  make 
such  a  declaration,  but  upon  my  honor  I  am  afraid  you  are  the 
falsest  of  men,  my  dear  Dombey." 

Though  he  had  been,  and  had  been  detected  on  the  spot,  in 
the  most  enormous  falsehood  that  was  ever  said  or  done, 
he  could  hardly  have  been  more  disconcerted  than  he  was 
when  Mrs.  Skewton  plucked  the  shawl  away,  and  Flor- 
ence, pale  and  trembling,  rose  before  him  like  a  ghost. 
He  had  not  yet  recovered  his  presence  of  mind,  when 
Florence  had  run  up  to  him,  clasped  her  hands  round  his 
neck,  kissed  his  face,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room.  He 
looked  round  as  if  to  refer  the  matter  to  somebody  else, 
but  Edith  had  gone  after  Florence  distantly. 

"  Now  confess,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
giving  him  her  hand,  "  that  you  never  were  more  surprised  and 
pleased  in  your  life." 

**  I  never  was  more  surprised,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

**  Nor  pleased,  my  dearest  Dombey  ?  "  returned  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  holding  up  her  fan. 

"  I — yes,  I  am  exceedingly  glad  to  meet  Florence  here," 
said  Mr.  Dombey.  He  appeared  to  consider  gravely  about  it 
for  a  moment,  and  then  said,  more  decidedly,  "  Yes,  I  really 
am  very  glad  indeed  to  meet  Florence  here." 

"  You  wonder  how  she  comes  here  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Skewton, 
'*  don't  you?" 

''  Edith,  perhaps — "  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Ah  !  wicked  guesser  !  "  replied  Cleopatra,  shaking  her 
head.  "  Ah  !  cunning,  cunning  man  !  One  shouldn't  tell 
these  things  ;  your  sex,  my  dear  Dombey,  are  so  vain,  and  so 
apt  to  abuse  our  weaknesses  ;  but  you  know  my  open  soul — 
very  well  ;  immediately." 

This  was  addressed  to  one  of  the  very  tall  young  men  who 
announced  dinner. 

"  But  Edith,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  continued  in  a  whis- 
per, "  when  she  can  not  have  you  near  her — and  as  I  tell 
her,  she  can  not  expect  that  always — will  at  least  have 
near  her  something  or  somebody  belonging  to  you.  Well, 
how  extremely  natural  that  is  !  And  in  this  spirit,  nothing 
would  keep  her  from  riding  off  to-day  to  fetch  our  darlmg 
Florence.     Well,  how  excessively  charming  that  is  !  " 

As  she  waited  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Dombey  answered, 
"  Eminently  so." 

"  Bless  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  for  that  proof  of  heart !  " 
cried  Cleopatra,  squeezing  his  hand.     ''  But  I  am  growing 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  4^1 

too  serious  !  Take  me  down-stairs,  like  an  angel,  and  let 
us  see  what  those  people  intend  to  give  us  for  dinner.  Bless 
you,  dear  Dombey  1  " 

Cleopatra  skipping  off  her  couch  with  tolerable  briskness, 
after  the  last  benediction,  Mr.  Dombey  took  her  arm  ii>  his 
and  led  her  ceremoniously  down-stairs  ;  one  of  the  very  tall 
young  men  on  hire,  whose  organ  of  veneration  was  imper- 
fectly developed,  thrusting  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  for  the 
en.tertainment  of  the  other  very  tall  young  men  on  hire,  as 
the  couple  turned  into  the  dining-room. 

Florence  and  Edith  were  already  there,  and  sitting  side 
by  side.  Florence  would  have  risen  when  her  father  entered, 
to  resign  her  chair  to  hira  ;  but^Edith  openly  put  her  hand 
upon  her  arm,  and  Mr.  Dombey  took  an  opposite  place  at 
the  round  table. 

The  conversation  was  almost  entirely  sustained  by  Mrs. 
Skewton.  Florence  hardly  dared  to  raise  her  eyes,  lest  they 
should  reveal  the  traces  of  tears  ;  far  less  dared  to  speak  ; 
and  Edith  never  uttered  one  word,  unless  in  answer  to  a 
question.  Verily,  Cleopatra  worked  hard  for  the  establish- 
ment that  was  so  nearly  clutched  ;  and  verily  it  should  have 
been  a  rich  one  to  reward  her  ! 

"  And  so  your  preparations  are  nearly  finished  at  last,  my 
dear  Dombey  ?"  said  Cleopatra,  when  the  dessert  was  put 
upon  the  table,  and  the  silver-headed  butler  had  withdrawn. 
*'  Even  the  lawyers'  preparations  !  " 

"  Yes,  madam,"  replied  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  the  deed  of  set- 
tlement, the  professional  gentlemen  inform  me,  is  now  ready, 
and  as  I  was  mentioning  to  you,  Edith  has  only  to  do  us  the 
favor  to  suggest  her  own  time  for  its  execution." 

Edith  sat  like  a  handsome  statue  ;  as  cold,  as  silent,  and 
as  still. 

"  My  dearest  love,"  said  Cleopatra,  "do  you  hear  what 
Mr.  Dombey  says  ?  Ah,  my  dear  Dombey  !  "  aside  to  that 
gentleman,  "  How  her  absence,  as  the  time  approaches, 
reminds  me  of  the  days  when  that  most  agreeable  of 
creatures,  her  papa,  was  in  your  situation  !  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  suggest.  It  shall  be  when  you 
please,"  said  Edith,  scarcely  looking  over  the  table  at  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  suggested  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please." 

'*  Or  would  next  day,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  suit  your 
engagements  better  ?  " 


432  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

'*  I  have  no  engagements.  I  am  always  at  your  disposal. 
Let  it  be  when  you  like." 

"  No  engagements,  my  dear  Edith  !  "  remonstrated  her 
mother,  "  when  you  are  in  a  most  terrible  state  of  flurry  all 
day  long,  and  have  a  thousand  and  one  appointments  with 
all  sorts  of  tradespeople  !  " 

"  They  are  of  your  making,"  returned  Edith,  turning  on 
her  with  a  slight  contraction  of  her  brow.  "  You  and  Mr. 
Dombey  can  arrange  between  you." 

"  Very  true,  indeed,  my  love,  and  most  considerate  of 
you  !  "  said  Cleopatra.  "  My  darling  Florence,  you  must 
really  come  and  kiss  me  once  more,  if  you  please,  my  dear  !  " 

Singular  coincidence,  that  these  gushes  of  interest  in 
Florence  hurried  Cleopatra  away  from  almost  every  dialogue 
in  which  Edith  had  a  share,  however  trifling  !  Florence  had 
certainly  never  undergone  so  much  embracing,  and  perhaps 
had  never  been,  unconsciously,  so  useful  in  her  life. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  far  from  quarreling,  in  his  own  breast, 
with  the  manner  of  his  beautiful  betrothed.  He  had  that 
good  reason  for  sympathy  with  haughtiness  and  coldness, 
which  is  found  in  a  fellow-feeling.  It  flattered  him  to  think  ^ 
how  these  deferred  to  him,  in  Edith's  case,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  will  apart  from  his.  It  flattered  him  to  picture  to 
himself  this  proud  and  stately  woman  doing  the  honors  of 
his  house,  and  chilling  his  guests  after  his  own  manner.  The 
dignity  of  Dombey  and  Son  would  be  heightened  and  main- 
tained, indeed,  in  such  hands. 

So  thought  Mr.  Dombey,  when  he  was  left  alone  at  the 
dining-table,  and  mused  upon  his  past  and  future  fortunes  ; 
finding  no  uncongeniality  in  the  air  of  scant  and  gloomy 
state  that  pervaded  the  room,  in  color  a  dark  brown,  with 
black  hatchments  of  pictures  blotching  the  walls,  and 
twenty-four  black  chairs,  with  almost  as  many  nails  in  them 
as  so  many  coffins,  waiting  like  mutes,  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  Turkey-carpet  ;  and  two  exhausted  negroes  holding 
up  two  withered  branches  of  candelabra  on  the  sideboard, 
and  a  musty  smell  prevailing  as  if  the  ashes  of  ten  thousand 
diners  were  entombed  in  the  saa:ophagus  below  it.  The 
owner  of  the  house  lived  much  abroad  ;  the  air  of  England 
seldom  agreed  long  with  a  member  of  the  Feenix  family  ; 
and  the  room  had  gradually  put  itself  into  deeper  and  still 
deeper  mourning  for  him,  until  it  was  become  so  funereal 
as  to  want  nothing  but  a  body  in  it  to  be  quite  complete. 

No  bad  representation  of  the  body,  for  the  nonce,  in  his 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  433 

unbending  form,  if  not  in  his  attitude,  Mr.  Dombey  looked 
down  into  the  cold  depths  of  the  dead  sea  of  mahogany  on 
which  the  fruit  dishes  and  decanters  lay  at  anchor  ;  as  if 
the  subjects  of  his  thoughts  were  rising  toward  the  surface 
one  by  one,  arrd  plunging  down  again.  Edith  was  there  in 
all  her  majesty  of  brow  and  figure  ;  and  close  to  her  came 
Florence,  with  her  timid  head  turned  to  him,  as  it  had 
been,  for  an  instant,  when  she  left  the  room  ;  and  Edith's 
eyes  upon  her,  and  Edith's  hand  put  out  protectingly.  A 
little  figure  in  a  low  arm-chair  came  springing  next  into  the 
light,  and  looked  upon  him  wonderingly,  with  its  bright 
eyes  and  its  old  young  face,  gleaming  as  in  the  flickering  of 
an  evening  fire.  Again  came  Florence  close  upon  it,  and 
absorbed  his  whole  attention.  Whether  as  a  fore-doomed 
difficulty  and  disappointment  to  him  ;  whether  as  a  rival 
who  had  crossed  him  in  his  way,  and  might  again  ;  whether 
as  his  child,  of  whom,  in  his  successful  wooing,  he  could 
stoop  to  think,  as  claiming,  at  such  a  time,  to  be  no  more 
estranged  ;  or  whether  as  a  hint  to  him  that  the  mere 
appearance  of  caring  for  his  own  blood  should  be  maintained 
in  his  new  relations  ;  he  best  knew.  Indifferently  well,  per- 
haps, at  best  ;  for  marriage  company  and  marriage  altars, 
and  ambitious  scenes — still  blotted  here  and  there  with  Flor- 
ence— always  Florence — turned  up  so  fast,  and  so  confusedly, 
that  he  rose  and  went  up-stairs,  to  escape  them. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night  before  candles  w^ere  brought  ; 
for  at  present  they  made  Mrs.  Skewton's  head  ache,  she 
complained  ;  and  in  the  mean  time  Florence  and  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  talked  together  (Cleopatra  being  very  anxious  to  keep 
her  close  to  herself),  or  Florence  touched  the  piano  softly 
for  Mrs.  Skewton's  delight  ;  to  make  no  mention  of  a  few 
occasions  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  when  that  affec- 
tionate lady  was  impelled  to  solicit  another  kiss,  and  which 
always  happened  after  Edith  had  said  any  thing.  They 
were  not  many,  however,  for  Edith  sat  apart  by  an  open 
window  during  the  whole  time  (in  spite  of  her  mother's  fears 
that  she  would  take  cold),  and  remained  there  until  Mr. 
Dombey  took  leave.  He  was  serenely  gracious  to  Florence 
when  he  did  so  ;  and  Florence  w^ent  to  bed  in  a  room  within 
Edith's,  so  happy  and  hopeful  that  she  thought  of  her  late 
self  as  if  it  were  some  other  poor  deserted  girl  who  was  to 
be  pitied  for  her  sorrow  ;  and  in  her  pity  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep. 

The  week  fled  fast.     There  were  drives  to  milliners,  dress- 


434  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

makers,  jewelers,  lawyers,  florists,  pastry  cooks  ;  and  Flor- 
ence was  always  of  the  party.  Florence  was  to  go  to  the 
wedding.  Florence  was  to  cast  off  her  mourning,  and  to 
wear  a  brilliant  dress  on  the  occasion.  The  milliner's  inten- 
tions on  the  subject  of  this  dress — the  milliner  was  a 
French-woman,  and  greatly  resembled  Mrs.  Skewton — were 
so  chaste  and  elegant,  that  Mrs.  Skewton  bespoke  one  like 
it  for  herself.  The  milliner  said  it  would  become  her  to 
admiration,  and  that  all  the  world  would  take  her  for  the 
young  lady's  sister. 

The  week  fled  faster.  Edith  looked  at  nothing  and  cared 
for  nothing.  Her  rich  dresses  came  home,  and  were  tried 
on,  and  were  loudly  commended  by  Mrs.  Skewton  and  the 
milliners,  and  were  put  away  without  a  word  from  her. 
Mrs.  Skewton  made  their  plans  for  every  day,  and  executed 
them.  Sometimes  Edith  sat  in  the  carriage  when  they  went 
to  make  purchases  ;  sometimes,  when  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary, she  went  into  the  shops.  But  Mrs.  Skewton  con- 
ducted the  whole  business,  whatever  it  happened  to  be  ;  and 
Edith  looked  on  as  uninterested  and  with  as  much  apparent 
indifference  as  if  she  had  no  concern  in  it.  Florence  might 
perhaps  have  thought  she  was  haughty  and  listless,  but 
that  she  was  never  so  to  her.  So  Florence  quenched  her 
wonder  in  her  gratitude  whenever  it  broke  out,  and  soon 
subdued  it. 

The  week  fled  faster.  It  had  nearly  winged  its  flight 
away.  The  last  night  of  the  week,  the  night  before  the  mar- 
riage, was  come.  In  the  dark  room — for  Mrs.  Skewton's 
head  was  no  better  yet,  though  she  expected  to  recover  per- 
manently to-morrow — were  that  lady,  Edith  and  Mr.  Dom- 
bey.  Edith  was  at  her  open  window,  looking  out  into  the 
street  ;  Mr.  Dombey  and  Cleopatra  were  talking  softly  on 
the  sofa.  It  was  growing  late  ;  and  Florence  being  fatigued, 
had  gone  to  bed. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  you  will  leave  me 
Florence  to-morrow,  when  you  deprive  me  of  my  sweetest 
Edith." 

Mr.  Dombey  said  he  would,  with  pleasure. 

'*  To  have  her  about  me  here,  while  you  are  both  at  Paris, 
and  to  think  that,  at  her  age,  I  am  assisting  in  the  formation 
of  her  mind,  my  dear  Dombey,"  said  Cleopatra,  ''  will  be  a 
perfect  balm  to  me  in  the  extremely  shattered  state  to  which 
I  shall  be  reduced." 

Edith  turned  her  head  suddenly.     Her  listless  manner 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  435 

was  exchanged,  in  a  moment,  to  one  of  burning  interest, 
and,  unseen  in  the  darkness,  she  attended  closely  to  their 
conversation. 

Mr.  Dombey  would  be  delighted  to  leave  Florence  in  such 
admirable  guardianship. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  returned  Cleopatra,  '*  a  thousand 
thanks  for  your  good  opinion.  I  feared  you  were  going,  with 
malice  aforethought,  as  the  dreadful  lawyers  say — those 
horrid  proses  ! — to  condemn  me  to  utter  solitude." 

''  Why  do  me  so  great  an  injustice,  my  dear  madam  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Because  my  charming  Florence  tells  me  so  positively 
she  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  returned  Cleopatra,  "  that  I 
began  to  be  afraid,  my  dearest  Dombey,  you  were  quite  a 
Bashaw." 

"  I  assure  you,  madam  !  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  have  laid 
no  commands  on  Florence  ;  and  if  I  had,  there  are  no  com- 
mands like  your  wish." 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  replied  Cleopatra,  ''  what  a  courtier 
you  are  !  Though  Fll  not  say  so,  either  ;  for  courtiers  have 
no  heart,  and  yours  pervades  your  charming  life  and  char- 
acter. And  are  you  really  going  so  early,  my  dear  Dom- 
bey !  " 

Oh,  indeed  !  it  was  late,  and  Mr.  Dombey  feared  he 
must. 

'*  Is  this  a  fact,  or  is  it  all  a  dream  !  "  lisped  Cleopatra. 
"  Can  I  believe,  my  dearest  Dombey,  that  you  are  coming 
back  to-morrow  morning  to  deprive  me  of  my  sweet  com- 
panion ;  my  own  Edith  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  things  literally, 
reminded  Mrs.  Skewton  that  they  were  to  meet  first  at  the 
church, 

"  The  pang,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  of  consigning  a  child, 
even  to  you,  my  dear  Dombey,  is  one  of  the  most  excruciat- 
ing imaginable  ;  and  combined  with  a  naturally  delicate 
constitution,  and  the  extreme  stupidity  of  the  pastry-cook 
who  has  undertaken  the  breakfast,  is  almost  too  much  for 
my  poor  strength.  But  I  shall  rally,  my  dear  Dombey,  in 
the  morning  :  do  not  fear  for  me  or  be  uneasy  on  my 
account.  Heaven  bless  you  !  My  dearest  Edith  ! "  she 
cried  archly.     *'  Somebody  is  going,  pet." 

Edith,  who  had  turned  her  head  toward  the  win- 
dow, and  whose  interest  in  their  conversation  had  ceased, 
rose  up  in  her  place,  but  made  no  advance  toward  him,  and 


43C  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

said  nothing.  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  lofty  gallantry  adapted 
to  his  dignity  and  the  occasion,  betook  his  creaking  boots 
toward  her,  put  her  hand  to  his  lips,  said,  ''  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  shall  have  the  happiness  of  claiming  this  hand  as  Mrs. 
Dombey's,"  and  bowed  himself  solemnly  out. 

Mrs.  Skewton  rang  for  candles  as  soon  as  the  house-door 
had  closed  upon  him.  With  the  candles  appeared  her  maid, 
with  the  juvenile  dress  that  was  to  delude  the  world  to-mor- 
row. The  dress  had  savage  retribution  in  it,  as  such  dresses 
ever  have,  and  made  her  infinitely  older  and  more  hideous 
than  her  greasy  flannel  gown.  IBut  Mrs.  Skewton  tried  it 
on  with  mincing  satisfaction  ;  smirked  with  her  cadaverous 
self  in  the  glass,  as  she  thought  of  its  killing  effect  upon  the 
major  ;  and  suffering  her  maid  to  take  it  off  again,  and  to 
prepare  her  for  repose,  tumbled  into  ruins  like  a  house  of 
painted  cards. 

All  this  time,  Edith  remained  at  the  dark  window  looking 
out  into  the  street.  When  she  and  her  mother  were  at  last 
left  alone,  she  moved  from  it  for  the  first  time  that  evening, 
and  came  opposite  her.  The  yawning,  shaking,  peevish  fig- 
ure of  the  mother,  with  her  eyes  raised  to  confront  the  proud, 
erect  form  of  the  daughter,  whose  glance  of  fire  was  bent 
downward  upon  her,  had  a  conscious  air  upon  it  that  no 
levity  or  temper  could  conceal. 

*'  I  am  tired  to  death,"  said  she.  "You  can't  be  trusted 
for  a  moment.  You  are  worse  than  a  child.  Child  !  No 
child  would  be  half  so  obstinate  and  undutiful." 

"  Listen  to  me,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  passing  these 
words  by  with  a  scorn  that  would  not  descend  to  trifle  with 
them.     "  You  must  remain  alone  here  until  I  return." 

"  Must  remain  alone  here,  Edith,  until  you  return  !  " 
repeated  her  mother. 

"  Or  in  that  name  upon  which  I  shall  call  to-morrow  to 
witness  what  I  do,  so  falsely,  and  so  shamefully,  I  swear  I 
will  refuse  the  hand  of  this  man  in  the  church.  If  I  do  not, 
may  I  fall  dead  upon  the  pavement  !  " 

The  mother  answered  with  a  look  of  quick  alarm,  in  no 
degree  diminished  by  the  look  she  met. 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  steadily,  "  that  we  are  what 
we  are.  I  will  have  no  youth  and  truth  dragged  down  to 
my  level.  I  will  have  no  guileless  nature  undermined,  cor- 
rupted, and  perverted,  to  amuse  the  leisure  of  a  world  of 
mothers.  You  know  my  meaning.  Florence  must  go 
home." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  437 

**  You  are  an  idiot,  Edith,"  cried  her  angry  mother.  "  Do 
you  expect  there  can  ever  be  peace  for  you  in  that  house  till 
she  is  married  and  away  ?  " 

^'  Ask  me,  or  ask  yourself,  if  I  ever  expect  peace  in  that 
house,"  said  her  daughter,  "  and  you  know  the  answer." 

"  And  am  I  to  be  told  to-night,  after  all  my  pains  and 
labor,  and  when  you  are  going,  through  me,  to  be  rendered 
independent,"  her  mother  almost  shrieked  in  her  passion, 
while  her  palsied  head  shook  like  a  leaf,  "  that  there  is  cor- 
ruption in  me,  and  that  I  am  not  fit  company  for  a  girl  ! 
What  are  you,  pray  ?     What  are  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  put  the  question  to  myself,"  said  Edith,  ashy 
pale,  and  pointing  to  the  window,  *'  more  than  once  when  I 
have  been  sitting  there,  and  something  in  the  faded  likeness 
of  my  sex  has  wandered  past  outside  ;  and  God  knows  I 
have  met  with  my  reply.  Oh  mother,  mother,  if  you  had 
but  left  me  to  my  natural  heart  when  I  too  was  a  girl — a 
younger  girl  than  Florence — how  different  I  might  have 
been  !  " 

Sensible  that  any  show  of  anger  was  useless  here,  her 
mother  restrained  herself,  and  fell  a-whimpering,  and 
bewailed  that  she  had  lived  too  long,  and  that  her  only  child 
had  cast  her  off,  and  that  duty  toward  parents  was  forgotten 
in  these  evil  days,  and  that  she  had  heard  unnatural  taunts, 
and  cared  for  life  no  longer. 

*'  If  one  is  to  go  on  living  through  continual  scenes  like 
this,"  she  whined,  "  I  am  sure  it  would  be  much  better  for  me 
to  think  of  some  means  of  putting  an  end  to  my  existence. 
Oh  !  The  idea  of  your  being  my  daughter,  Edith,  and 
addressing  me  in  such  a  strain  !  " 

"  Between  us,  mother,"  returned  Edith,  mournfully,  "the 
time  for  mutual  reproaches  is  past." 

''  Then  why  do  you  revive  it,"  whimpered  her  mother. 
"  You  know  that  you  are  lacerating  me  in  the  crudest  man- 
ner. You  know  how  sensitive  I  am  to  unkindness.  At 
such  a  moment,  too,  when  I  have  so  much  to  think  of,  and 
am  naturally  anxious  to  appear  to  the  best  advantage  !  I 
wonder  at  you,  Edith.  To  make  your  mother  a  fright  upon 
your  wedding-day  ! " 

Edith  bent  the  same  fixed  look  upon  her,  as  she  sobbed 
and  rubbed  her  eyes  ;  and  said  in  the  same  low,  steady 
voice,  which  had  neither  risen  nor  fallen  since  she  first 
addressed  her,  "  I  have  said  that  Florence  must  go  home." 

"  Let  her  go  !  "   cried  the  afflicted  and  affrighted  parent, 


438  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

hastily.  "  I  am  sure  I  am  willing  she  should  go.  What  is 
the  girl  to  me?" 

"  She  is  so  much  to  me,  that  rather  than  communicate,  or 
suffer  to  be  communicated  to  her,  one  grain  of  the  evil  that 
is  in  my  breast,  mother,  I  would  renounce  you,  as  I  would 
(ifyougaveme  cause)  renounce  him  in  the  church  to-mor- 
row," replied  Edith.  ''Leave  her  alone.  She  shall  not, 
while  I  can  interfere,  be  tampered  with  and  tainted  with  the 
lessons  I  have  learned.  This  is  no  hard  condition  on  this 
bitter  night." 

"  If  you  had  proposed  it  in  a  filial  manner,  Edith,"  whined 
her  mother,  ''  perhaps  not  ;  very  likely  not.  But  such 
extremely  cutting  words — " 

"  They  are  past  and  at  an  end  between  us  now,"  said  Edith. 
"  Take  your  own  way,  mother  ;  share  as  you  please  in  what 
you  have  gained  ;  spend,  enjoy,  maKe  much  of  it  ;  and  be 
as  happy  as  you  will.  The  object  of  our  lives  is  won. 
Henceforth  let  us  wear  it  silently.  My  lips  are  closed  upon 
the  past  from  this  hour.  I  forgive  you  your  part  in  to-mor- 
row's wickedness.     May  God  forgive  my  own  !  " 

Without  a  tremor  in  her  voice  or  frame,  and  passing 
onward  with  a  foot  that  set  itself  upon  the  neck  of  every 
soft  emotion,  she  bade  her  mother  good-night,  and  repaired 
to  her  own  room. 

But  not  to  rest  ;  for  there  was  no  rest  in  the  tumult  of  her 
agitation  when  alone.  To  and  fro,  and  to  and  fro,  and  to 
and  fro  again,  five  hundred  times  among  the  splendid  prep- 
arations for  her  adornment  on  the  morrow  ;  with  her  dark 
hair  shaken  down,  her  dark  eyes  flashing  with  a  raging  light, 
her  broad  white  bosom  red  with  the  cruel  grasp  of  the  relent- 
less hand  with  which  she  spurned  it  from  her,  pacing  up  and 
down  with  an  averted  head,  as  if  she  would  avoid  the  sight 
of  her  own  fair  person,  and  divorce  herself  from  its  compan- 
ionship. Thus,  in  the  dead  time  of  the  night  before  her 
bridal,  Edith  Granger  wrestled  with  her  unquiet  spirit,  tear- 
less, friendless,  silent,  proud  and  uncomplaining. 

At  length  it  happened  that  she  touched  the  open  door 
which  led  into  the  room  where  Florence  lay. 

She  started,  stopped,  and  looked  in. 

A  light  was  burning  there,  and  showed  her  Florence  in 
her  bloom  of  innocence  and  beauty,  fast  asleep.  Edith  held 
her  breath,  and  felt  herself  drawn  on  toward  her. 

Drawn  nearer,  nearer,  nearer  yet  ;  at  last,  drawn  so  near 
that,  stooping  down,  she  pressed  her  lips  to  the  gentle  hand 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  439 

that  lay  outside  the  bed,  and  put  it  softly  to  her  neck.  Its 
touch  was  like  the  prophet's  rod  of  old  upon  the  rock.  Her 
tears  sprung  forth  beneath  it,  as  she  sunk  upon  her  knees, 
and  laid  her  aching  head  and  streaming  hair  upon  the  pillow- 
by  its  side. 

Thus  Edith   Granger  passed  the  night  before  her  bridal. 
Thus  the  sun  found  her  on  her  bridal  morning. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

THE    WEDDING. 

Dawn  with  its  passionless  blank  face,  steals  shivering  to 
the  church  beneath  which  lies  the  dust  of  little  Paul  and 
his  mother,  and  looks  in  at  the  windows.  It  is  cold  and 
dark.  Night  crouches  yet  upon  the  pavement,  and  broods, 
somber  and  heavy,  in  nooks  and  corners  of  the  building. 
The  steeple-clock,  perched  up  above  the  houses,  emerging 
from  beneath  one  of  the  countless  ripples  in  the  tide  of  time 
that  regularly  roll  and  break  on  the  eternal  shore,  is  grayly 
visible,  like  a  stone  beacon,  recordmg  how  the  sea  flows  on  ; 
but  within  doors,  dawn,  at  first,  can  only  peep  at  night,  and 
see  that  it  is  there. 

Hovering  feebly  round  the  church,  and  looking  in,  dawn 
moans  and  weeps  for  its  short  reign,  and  its  tears  trickle  on 
the  window-glass,  and  the  trees  against  the  church-wall  bow 
their  heads,  and  wring  their  many  hands  in  sympathy. 
Night,  growing  pale  before  it,  gradually  fades  out  of  the 
church,  but  lingers  in  the  vaults  below,  and  sits  upon  the 
coffins.  And  now  comes  bright  day,  burnishing  the  steeple- 
clock,  and  reddening  the  spire,  and  dr}4ng  up  the  tears  of 
dawn,  and  stifling  its  complaining  ;  and  the  scared  dawn, 
following  the  night  and  chasing  it  from  its  last  refuge, 
shrinks  into  the  vaults  itself  and  hides,  with  a  frightened 
face,  among  the  dead,  until  night  returns,  refreshed,  to 
drive  it  out. 

And  now  the  mice,  who  have  been  busier  with  the  prayer- 
books  than  their  proper  owner,  and  with  the  hassocks,  more 
worn  by  their  little  teeth  than  by  human  knees,  hide  their 
bright  eyes  in  their  holes,  and  gather  close  together  in 
affright  at  the  resounding  clashing  of  the  church-door.  For 
the  beadle,  that  man  of  power,  comes  early  this  m.orning 
with  the   sexton  ;  and   Mrs.   Miff,   the    wheezy   little  pew- 


440  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

opener — a  mighty  dry  old  lady,  sparely  dressed,  with  not 
an  inch  of  fullness  any  where  about  her — is  also  here,  and 
has  been  waiting  at  the  church-gate  half  an  hour,  as  her 
place  is,  for  the  beadle. 

A  vinegary  face  has  Mrs.  Miff,  and  a  mortified  bonnet, 
and  eke  a  thirsty  soul  for  sixpences  and  shillings.  Beckon- 
ing to  stray  people  to  come  into  pews,  has  given  Mrs.  Miff 
an  air  of  mystery  ;  and  there  is  reservation  in  the  eye  of 
Mrs.  Miff,  as  always  knowing  of  a  softer  seat,  but  having  her 
suspicions  of  the  fee.  There  is  no  such  fact  as  Mr.  Miff, 
nor  has  there  been,  these  twenty  years,  and  Mrs.  Miff  would 
rather  not  allude  to  him.  He  held  some  bad  opinions,  it 
would  seem,  about  free  seats  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Miff  hopes 
he  may  be  gone  upward,  she  couldn't  positively  undertake  to 
say  so. 

Busy  is  Mrs.  Miff  this  morning  at  the  church-door,  beat- 
ing and  dusting  the  altar-cloth,  the  carpet,  and  the  cush- 
ions ;  and  much  has  Mrs.  Miff  to  say,  about  the  wedding 
they  are  going  to  have.  Mrs.  Miff  is  told  that  the  new  fur- 
niture and  alterations  in  the  house  cost  full  five  thousand 
pound,  if  they  cost  a  penny  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff  had  heard  upon 
the  best  authority,  that  the  lady  hasn't  got  a  sixpence  where- 
withal to  bless  herself.  Mrs.  Miff  remembers,  likewise,  as 
if  it  had  happened  yesterday,  the  first  wife's  funeral,  and 
then  the  christening,  and  then  the  other  funeral  ;  and  Mrs. 
Miff  says,  by-the-by  she'll  soap-and-water  that  'ere  tablet 
presently,  against  the  company  arrive.  Mr.  Sownds,  the 
beadle,  who  is  sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  church  steps  all  this 
time  (and  seldom  does  any  .thing  else,  except,  in  cold 
weather,  sitting  by  the  fire),  approves  of  Mrs.  Miff's  dis- 
course, and  asks  if  Mrs.  Miff  had  heard  it  said  that  the  lady 
is  uncommon  handsome  ?  The  information  Mrs.  Miff  has 
received,  being  of  this  nature,  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  who, 
though  orthodox  and  corpulent,  is  still  an  admirer  of  female 
beauty,  observes,  with  unction,  yes,  he  hears  she  is  a 
spanker — an  expression  that  seems  somewhat  forcible  to 
Mrs.  Miff,  or  would,  from  any  lips  but  those  of  Mr.  Sownds, 
the  beadle. 

In  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  at  this  same  time,  there  is  a  great 
stir  and  bustle,  more  especially  among  the  women  ;  none  of 
whom  has  had  a  wink  of  sleep  since  four  o'clock,  and  all  of 
whom  were  full  dressed  before  six.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  an 
object  of  greater  consideration  than  usual  to  the  house- 
maid, and  the  cook  says  at  breakfast-time  that  one  wedding 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  441 

makes  many,  which  the  house-maid  can't  believe,  and  don't 
think  true  at  aU.  Mr.  Towlinson  reserves  his  sentiments  on 
this  question  ;  being  rendered  something  gloomy  by  the 
engagement  of  a  foreigner  with  whiskers,  (Mr.  1  owlinson 
is  whiskerless  himself),  who  has  been  hired  to  accompany 
the  happy  pair  to  Paris,  and  who  is  busy  packing  the  new 
chariot.  In  respect  of  this  personage,  Mr.  Towlinson 
admits,  presently,  that  he  never  knew  of  any  good  that  ever 
come  of  foreigners  ;  and  being  charged  by  the  ladies  with 
prejudice,  says,  look  at  Bonaparte,  who  was  at  the  head  of 
'em,  and  see  what  he  was  always  up  to  !  Which  the  house- 
maid says  is  very  true. 

The  pastry-cook  is  hard  at  work  in  the  funereal  room  in 
Brook  Street,  and  the  very  tall  young  men  are  busy  looking 
on.  One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  already  smells  of 
sherry,  and  his  eyes  have  a  tendency  to  become  fixed  in  his 
head,  and  to  stare  at  objects  without  seeing  them.  The 
very  tall  young  man  is  conscious  of  this  failing  in  himself  ; 
and  informs  his  comrade  that  it's  his  "  exciseman."  The 
very  tall  young  man  would  say  excitement,  but  his  speech  is 
hazy. 

The  men  who  play  the  bells  have  got  scent  of  the  mar- 
riage ;  and  the  marrow-bones  and  cleavers  too  ;  and  a  brass 
band  too.  The  first  are  practicing  in  a  back  settlement  near 
Battle-bridge  ;  the  second  put  themselves  in  communica- 
tion, through  their  chief,  with  Mr.  Towlinson;  to  whom  they 
offer  terms  to  be  bought  off ;  and  the  third,  in  the  person  of 
an  artful  trombone,  lurks  and  dodges  round  the  corner,  wait- 
ing for  some  traitor  tradesman  to  reveal  the  place  and  hour 
of  breakfast,  for  a  bribe.  Expectation  and  excitement 
extend  further  yet,  and  take  a  wider  range.  From  Balls 
Pond,  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  spend  the  day  with 
Mr.  Dombey's  servants,  and  accompany  them,  surrepti- 
tiously, to  see  the  wedding.  In  Mr.  Toots's  lodgings,  Mr. 
Toots  attires  himself  as  if  he  were  at  least  the  bridegroom  ; 
determined  to  behold  the  spectacle  in  splendor  from  a  secret 
corner  of  the  gallery,  and  thither  to  convey  the  Chicken  ;  for 
it  is  Mr.  Toots's  desperate  intent  to  point  out  Florence  to  the 
Chicken  then  and  there,  and  openly  to  say,  *'  Now, 
Chicken,  I  will  not  deceive  you  any  longer  ;  the  friend  I 
have  sometimes  mentioned  to  you  is  myself  ;  Miss  Dombey 
is  the  object  of  my  passion  ;  what  are  your  opinions, 
Chicken,  in  this  state  of  things,  and  what,  on  the  spot,  do 
you  advise  ?  "     The  so-much-to-be-astonished  Chicken,  in 


442  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  meanwhile,  dips  his  beak  into  a  tankard  of  strong  beer 
in  Mr.  Toots's  kitchen,  and  pecks  up  two  pounds  of  beef- 
steaks. In  Princess  Place,  Miss  Tox  is  up  and  doing  ;  for 
she,  too,  though  in  sore  distress,  is  resolved  to  put  a  shilling 
in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Miff,  and  see  the  ceremony,  which  has 
a  cruel  fascination  for  her,  from  some  lonely  corner.  The 
quarters  of  the  Wooden  Midshipman  are  all  alive  ;  for 
Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  ankle-jacks,  and  with  a  huge  shirt- 
collar,  is  seated  at  breakfast,  listening  to  Rob  the  Grinder 
as  he  reads  the  marriage  service  to  him  beforehand,  under 
orders,  to  the  end  that  the  captain  may  perfectly  under- 
stand the  solemnity  he  is  about  to  witness  ;  for  which  pur- 
pose the  captain  gravely  lays  injunctions  on  his  chaplain, 
from  time  to  time,  to  "  put  about,"  or  to  ^'  overhaul  that  'ere 
article  again,"  or  to  stick  to  his  own  duty,  and  leave  the 
amens  to  him,  the  captain  ;  one  of  which  he  repeats,  when- 
ever a  pause  is  made  by  Bob  the  Grinder,  with  sonorous 
satisfaction. 

Besides  all  this,  and  much  more,  twenty  nursery-maids  in 
Mr.  Dombey's  street  alone  have  promised  twenty  families  of 
little  women,  whose  instinctive  interest  in  nuptials  dates  from 
their  cradles,  that  they  shall  go  and  see  the  marriage.  Truly, 
Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  has  good  reason  to  feel  himself  in 
office,  as  he  suns  his  portly  figure  on  the  church  steps,  wait- 
ing for  the  marriage  hour.  Truly,  Mrs.  Miff  has  cause  to 
pounce  on  an  unlucky  dwarf  child,  with  a  giant  baby,  who 
peeps  in  at  the  porch,  and  drive  her  forth  with  indignation  ! 

Cousin  Feenix  has  come  over  from  abroad  expressly  to 
attend  the  marriage.  Cousin  Feenix  was  a  man  about  town 
forty  years  ago  ;  but  he  is  still  so  juvenile  in  figure  and  in 
manner,  and  so  well  got  up,  that  strangers  are  amazed  when 
they  discover  latent  wrinkles  in  his  lordship's  face,  and 
crow's  feet  in  his  eyes  ;  and  first  observe  him,  not  exactly 
certain  when  he  walks  across  a  room  of  going  quite  straight 
to  where  he  wants  to  go.  But  Cousin  Feenix,  getting  up  at 
half-past  seven  o'clock  or  so,  is  quite  another  thing  from 
Cousin  Feenix  got  up  ;  and  very  dim,  indeed,  he  looks, 
while  being  shaved  at  Long's  Hotel,  in  Bond  Street. 

Mr.  Dombey  leaves  his  dressing-room  amid  a  general 
whisking  away  of  the  women  on  the  staircase,  who  disperse 
in  all  directions,  with  a  great  rustling  of  skirts,  except  Mrs. 
Perch,  who,  being  (but  that  she  always  is)  in  an  interesting 
situation,  is  not  nimble,  and  is  obliged  to  face  him,  and  is 
ready  to  sink  with  confusion  as  she  courtesies  ;  may  Heaven 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  443 

avert  all  evil  consequences  from  the  house  of  Perch  !  Mr. 
Dombey  walks  up  to  the  drawing-room  to  bide  his  time. 
Gorgeous  are  Mr.  Dombey's  new  blue  coat,  fawn-colored 
pantaloons,  and  lilac  waistcoat  ;  and  a  whisper  goes  about 
the  house  that  Mr.  Dombey's  hair  is  curled. 

A  double  knock  announces  the  arrival  of  the  major,  who 
is  gorgeous,  too,  and  wears  a  whole  geranium  in  his  button- 
hole, and  has  his  hair  curled  tight  and  crisp,  as  well  the 
native  knows. 

"  Dombey  !  "  says  the  major,  putting  out  both  hands, 
"  bow  are  you  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  how  are  you?" 

"  By  Jove  !  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  Joey  B.  is  in  such 
case  this  morning,  sir" — and  here  he  hits  himself  hard  upon 
the  breast — ^'in  such  case  this  morning,  sir,  that,  damme, 
Dombey,  he  has  half  a  mind  to  make  a  double  marriage 
of  it,  sir,  and  take  the  mother." 

Mr.  Dombey  smiles  ;  but  faintly,  even  for  him  ;  for  Mr. 
Dombey  feels  that  he  is  going  to  be  related  to  the  mother, 
and  that,  under  those  circumstances,  she  is  not  to  be  joked 
about. 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  seeing  this,  '*  I  give  you  joy. 
I  congratulate  you,  Dombey.  By  the  Lord,  sir,"  says  the 
major,  ''you  are  more  to  be  envied,  this  day,  than  any  man 
in  England  !  " 

Here,  again,  IMr.  Dombey's  assent  is  qualified  ;  because 
he  is  going  to  confer  a  great  distinction  on  a  lady  ;  and,  no 
doubt,  she  is  to  be  envied  most. 

''As  to  Edith  Granger,  sir,"  pursues  the  major,  "  there  is 
not  a  woman  in  all  Europe  but  might — and  would,  sir,  you 
will  allow  Bagstock  to  add — and  would  give  her  ears,  and 
her  ear-rings,  too,  to  be  in  Edith  Granger's  place." 

"You  are  good  enough  to  say  so,  major,"  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  returns  the  major,  "  you  know  it.  Let  us 
have  no  false  delicacy.  You  know  it.  Do  you  know  it,  or 
do  you  not,  Dombey  ?  "  says  the  major,  almost  in  a  passion. 

"  Oh,  really,  major — " 

"  Damme,  sir,"  retorts  the  major,  "  do  ypu  know  that  fact, 
or  do  you  not,  Dombey  ?  Is  old  Joe  your  friend  ?  Are 
we  on  that  footing  of  unreserved  intimacy,  Dombey,  that 
may  justify  a  man — a  blunt  old  Joseph  B.,  sir — in  speaking 
out  ;  or  am  I  to  take  open  order,  Dombey,  and  to  keep  my 
distance,  and  to  stand  on  forms  ? " 


444  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  My  dear  Major  Bagstock,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
gratified  air,  "  you  are  quite  warm." 

'*  By  Gad  !  sir,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  warm.  Joseph 
B.  does  not  deny  it,  Dombey.  He  is  warm.  This  is  an 
occasion,  sir,  that  calls  forth  all  the  honest  sympathies 
remaining  in  an  old,  infernal,  battered,  used-up,  invalided 
J.  B.  carcass.  And  I  tell  you  what,  Dombey — at  such  a 
time  a  man  must  blurt  out  what  he  feels,  or  put  a  muzzle 
on  ;  and  Joseph  Bagstock  tells  you  to  your  face,  Dombey,  as 
he  tells  his  club  behind  your  back,  that  he  never  will  be  muz- 
zled when  Paul  Dombey  is  in  question.  Now,  damme,  sir," 
concludes  the  major,  with  great  firmness,  "what  do  you 
make  of  that  ?  " 

"  Major,"  says  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  assure  you  that  I  am 
really  obliged  to  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  checking  your  too 
partial  friendship." 

"  Not  too  partial,  sir  !  "  exclaims  the  choleric  major. 
Dombey,  I  deny  it." 

"  Your  friendship  I  will  say,  then,"  pursues  Mr.  Dombey, 
"on  any  account.  Nor  can  I  forget,  major,  on  such  an 
occasion  as  the  present,  how  much  I  am  indebted  to  it." 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  with  appropriate  action,  "  that 
is  the  hand  of  Joseph  Bagstock  ;  of  plain  old  Joey  B.,  sir, 
if  you  like  that  better  !  That  is  the  hand  of  which  His 
Royal  Highness,  the  late  Duke  of  York,  did  me  the  honor 
to  observe,  sir,  to  His  Royal  Highness,  the  late  Duke  of 
Kent,  that  it  was  the  hand  of  Josh  ;  a  rough  and  tough, 
and  possibly  an  up-to-snuff,  old  vagabond.  Dombey,  may 
the  present  moment  be  the  least  unhappy  of  our  lives.  God 
bless  you  !  " 

Now  enters  Mr.  Carker,  gorgeous  likewise,  and  smiling 
like  a  wedding-guest  indeed.  He  can  scarcely  let  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  hand  go,  he  is  so  congratulatory  ;  and  he  shakes  the 
major's  hand  so  heartily  at  the  same  time,  that  his  voice 
shakes  too,  in  accord  with  his  arms,  as  it  comes  sliding 
from  between  his  teeth. 

"  The  very  day  is  auspicious,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  The 
brightest  and  most  genial  weather  !  I  hope  I  am  not  a 
moment  late  ? " 

"  Punctual  to  your  time,  sir,"  says  the  major. 

"lam  rejoiced,  I  am  sure,"  says  Mr.  Carker.  "  I  was 
afraid  I  might  be  a  few  seconds  after  the  appointed  time, 
for  I  was  delayed  by  a  procession  of  wagons  ;  and  took  the 
liberty  of  riding  round  to  Brook  Street  " — this  to  Mr.  Dom- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  445 

bey — "  to  leave  a  few  poor  rarities  of  flowers  for  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey.  A  man  in  my  position,  and  so  distinguished  as  to  be 
invited  here,  is  proud  to  offer  some  homage  in  acknowldge- 
ment  of  his  vassalage  ;  and  as  I  have  no  doubt  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey  is  overwhelmed  with  what  is  costly  and  magnificent  ;" 
with  a  strange  glance  at  his  patron  ;  ''  I  hope  the  very  pov- 
erty of  my  offering  may  find  favor  for  it." 

''  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  is  to  be,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  con- 
descendingly, "  will  be  very  sensible  of  your  attention, 
Carker,  I  am -sure." 

"  And  if  she  is  to  be  Mrs.  Dombey  this  morning,  sir,"  savs 
the  major,  putting  down  his  coffee-cup  and  looking  at  his 
watch,  "it's  high  time  we  were  off  !  " 

Forth,  in  a  barouche,  ride  Mr.  Dombey,  ^lajor  Bagstock, 
and  Mr.  Carker,  to  the  church.  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle, 
has  long  risen  from  the  steps,  and  is  in  waiting  with  his 
cocked  hat  in  his  hand.  Mrs.  Miff  courtesies,  and  proposes 
chairs  in  the  vestry.  Mr.  Dombey  prefers  remaining  in  the 
church.  As  he  looks  up  at  the  organ,  Miss  Tox  in  the  gal- 
lery shrinks  behind  the  fat  leg  of  a  cherub  on  a  monument, 
with  cheeks  like  a  young  Wind.  Captain  Cuttle,  on  the 
contrary,  stands  up  and  waves  his  hook,  in  token  of  wel- 
come and  encouragement.  Mr.  Toots  informs  the  Chicken, 
behind  his  hand,  that  the  middle  gentleman,  he  in  the  fawn- 
colored  pantaloons,  is  the  father  of  his  love.  The  Chicken 
hoarsely  whispers  Mr.  Toots  that  he's  as  stiff  a  cove  as  ever 
he  see,  but  that  it  is  within  the  resources  of  science  to 
double  him  up,  with  one  blow  in  the  waistcoat. 

Mr.  Sownds  and  Mrs.  Miff  are  eying  Mr.  Dombey  from 
a  little  distance,  when  the  noise  of  approaching  wheels  is 
heard,  and  Mr.  Sownds  goes  out,  Mrs.  Miff,  meeting  Mr. 
Dombey' s  eye  as  it  is  withdrawn  from  the  presumptuous 
maniac  up-stairs,  who  salutes  with  so  much  urbanity,  drops  a 
courtesy,  and  informs  him  that  she  believes  his  "good 
lady  "  is  come.  Then  there  is  a  crowding  and  a  whisper- 
ing at  the  door,  and  the  good  lady  enters,  with  a  haughty 
step. 

There  is  no  sign  on  her  face  of  last  night's  suffering  ; 
there  is  no  trace  m  her  manner  of  the  woman  on  the  bended 
knees  reposing  her  wild  head,  in  beautiful  abandonment, 
upon  the  pillow  of  the  sleeping  girl.  That  girl  all  gentle 
and  lovely,  is  at  her  side — a  striking  contrast  to  her  own  dis- 
dainful and  defiant  figure,  standing  there,  composed,  erect, 
inscrutable  of  will,  resplendent  and  majestic  in  the  zenith  of 


446  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

its  charms,  yet  beating  down,  and   treading  on,  the  admira- 
tion it  challenges. 

There  is  a  pause  while  Mr.  Sownds,  the  beadle,  glides 
into  the  vestry  for  the  clergyman  and  clerk.  At  this  junc- 
ture, Mrs.  Skewton  speaks  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  more  distinctly 
and  emphatically  than  her  custom  is,  and  moving  at  the 
same  time  close  to  Edith. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  says  the  good  mamma,  "  I  fear  I  must 
relinquish  darling  Florence  after  all,  and  suffer  her  to  go 
home,  as  she  herself  proposed.  After  my  loss  of  to-day,  my 
dear  Dombey,  I  feel  I  shall  not  have  spirits  even  for  her 
society." 

"  Had  she  not  better  stay  with  you  ?  "  returns  the  bride- 
groom. 

"  I  think  not,  my  dear  Dombey.  No,  I  think  not.  I  shall 
be  better  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest  Edith  will  be  her 
natural  and  constant  guardian  when  you  return,  and  I  had 
better  not  encroach  upon  her  trust,  perhaps.  She  might  be 
jealous.     Eh,  dear  Edith  ?  " 

The  affectionate  mamma  presses  her  daughter's  arm  as 
she   says  this  ;  perhaps  entreating   her  attention   earnestly. 

*'  To  be  serious,  my  dear  Dombey,"  she  resumes,  "  I  will 
relinquish  our  dear  child,  and  not  inflict  my  gloom  upon 
her.  We  have  settled  that,  just  now.  She  fully  understands, 
dear  Dombey.     Edith,  my  dear — she  fully  understands." 

Again  the  good  mother  presses  her  daughter's  arm.  Mr. 
Dombey  offers  no  additional  remonstrance  ;  for  the  clergy- 
man and  clerk  appear  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the 
beadle,  group  the  party  in  their  proper  places  at  the  altar 
rails. 

"  Who  giveth  this  woman  to   be  married   to  this  man  ?  " 

Cousin  Feenix  does  that.  He  has  come  from  Baden-Baden 
on  purpose.  "  Confound  it,"  Cousin  Feenix  says — good- 
natured  creature.  Cousin  Feenix — "  when  we  do  get  a  rich 
City  fellow  into  the  family,  let  us  show  him  some  attention  ; 
let  us  do  something  for  him." 

"/give  this  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,"  saith  Cousin 
Feenix  therefore.  Cousin  Feenix,  meaning  to  go  in  a  straight 
line,  but  turning  off  sideways  by  reason  of  his  willful  legs, 
gives  the  wrong  woman  to  be  married  to  this  man,  at  first — • 
to  wit  a  bridesmaid  of  some  condition,  distantly  connected 
with  the  family,  and  ten  years  Mrs.  Skewton's  junior — but 
Mrs.  Miff",  interposing  her  mortified  bonnet,  dexterously 
turns  him  back,   and  runs  him,   as  on   casters,   full  at  the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  447 

**  good  lady  ;  "  whom  Cousin  Feenix  giveth  to  be  married  to 
this  man  accordingly. 

And  will  they  in  the  sight  of  heaven — ? 

Ay,  that  they  will  ;  Mr.  Dombey  says  he  will.  And  what 
says  Edith  ?     She  will. 

So,  from  that  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for  richer 
for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love  and  to  cherish, 
till  death  do  them  part,  they  plight  their  troth  to  one  another, 
and  are  married. 

In  a  firm,  free  hand,  the  bride  subscribes  her  name  in  the 
register,  when  they  adjourn  to  the  vestry.  "There  ain't  a-many 
ladies  comes  here,"  Mrs.  Miff  says,  w4th  a  courtesy — to  look 
at  Mrs.  Miff  at  such  a  season,  is  to  make  her  mortified  bon- 
net go  down  with  a  dip — *'  writes  their  names  like  this  good 
lady  !  "  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  thinks  it  is  a  truly  spank- 
ing signature,  and  worthy  of  the  writer — this,  however, 
between  himself  and  conscience. 

Florence  signs  too,  but  unapplauded,  for  her  hand  shakes. 
All  the  party  sign  ;  Cousin  Feenix  last  ;  who  puts  his  noble 
name  into  a  wrong  place,  and  enrolls  himself  as  having  been 
born  that  morning. 

The  major  now  salutes  the  bride  right  gallantly,  and  carries 
out  that  branch  of  military  tactics  in  reference  to  all  the 
ladies  ;  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Skewton's  being  extremely 
hard  to  kiss,  and  squeaking  shrilly  in  the  sacred  edifice. 
The  example  is  followed  by  Cousii?  Feenix,  and  even 
by  Mr.  Dombey.  Lastly,  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  white 
teeth  glistening,  approaches  Edith,  more  as  if  he  meant 
to  bite  her,  than  to  taste  the  sweets  that  linger  on  her 
lips. 

There  is  a  glow  upon  her  proud  cheek,  and  a  flashing  in 
her  eyes,  that  may  be  meant  to  stay  him  ;  but  it  does  not, 
for  he  salutes  her  as  the  rest  have  done,  and  wishes  her  all 
happiness. 

"  If  wishes,"  says  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "  are  not  superfluous, 
applied  to  such  a  union." 

'^  I  thank  you,  sir,"  she  answers,  with  a  curled  lip,  and  a 
heaving  bosom. 

But  does  Edith  feel  still,  as  on  the  night  when  she  knew 
that  Mr.  Dombey  would  return  to  offer  his  alliance,  that 
Carker  knows  her  thoroughly,  and  reads  her  right,  and  that 
ehe  is  more  degraded  by  his  knowledge  of  her  than  by  aught 
else  ?  Is  it  for  this  reason  that  her  haughtiness  shrinks 
beneath  his  smile,  like   snow  within  the  hand   that  grasps  it 


448  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

firmly,  and  that  her  imperious  glance  droops  in  meeting  nis, 
and  seeks  the  ground  ? 

*'  I  am  proud  to  see,"  says  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  servile  stoop- 
ing of  his  neck,  which  the  revelations  making  by  his  eyes  and 
teeth  proclaim  to  be  a  lie,  ''  I  am  proud  to  see  that  my  hum- 
ble offering  is  graced  by  Mrs.  Dombey's  hand,  and  permitted 
to  hold  so  favored  a  place  in  so  joyful  an  occasion." 

Though  she.bends  her  head,  in  answer,  there  is  something 
in  the  momentary  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  would  crush 
the  flowers  it  holds  and  fling  them,  with  contempt,  upon  the 
ground.  But  she  puts  the  hand  through  the  arm  of  her  new 
husband,  who  has  been  standing  near,  conversing  with  the 
major,  and  is  proud  again,  and  motionless,  and  silent. 

The  carriages  are  once  more  at  the  church-door.  Mr. 
Dornbey,  with  his  bride  upon  his  arm,  conducts  her  through 
the  twenty  families  of  little  women  who  are  on  the  steps, 
and  every  one  of  whom  remembers  the  fashion  and  the  color 
of  her  every  article  of  dress  from  that  moment,  and  repro- 
duces it  on  her  doll,  who  is  forever  being  married.  ^Cleopatra 
and  Cousin  Feenix  enter  the  same  carriage.  The  major 
hands  into  a  second  carriage  Florence  and  the  bridesmaid 
who  so  narrowly  escaped  being  given  away  by  mistake,  and 
then  enters  it  himself,  and  is  followed  by  Mr.  Carker. 
Horses  prance  and  caper  ;  coachmen  and  footmen  shine  in 
fluttering  favors,  flowers,  and  new-made  liveries.  Away  they 
dash  and  rattle  through  the  streets  :  and  as  they  pass  along, 
a  thoAisand  heads  are  turned  to  look  at  them,  and  a  thou- 
sand sober  moralists  revenge  themselves  for  not  being  married 
too,  that  morning,  by  reflecting  that  these  people  little  think 
such  happiness  can't  last. 

Miss  Tox  emerges  from  behind  the  cherub's  leg,  when  all 
is  quiet,  and  comes  slowly  down  from  the  gallery.  Miss 
Tox's  eyes  are  red,  and  her  pocket-handkerchief  is  damp. 
She  is  wounded,  but  not  exasperated,  and  she  hopes  they 
may  be  happy.  She  quite  admits  to  herself  the  beauty  of  the 
bride,  and  her  own  comparatively  feeble  and  faded  attrac- 
tions ;  but  the  stately  image  of  Mr.  Dornbey  in  his  lilac 
waistcoat,  and  his  fawn-colored  pantaloons,  is  present  to  her 
mind,  and  Miss  Tox  weeps  afresh,  behind  her  veil,  on  her 
way  home  to  Princess's  Place.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  joined 
in  all  the  aniens  and  responses,  with  a  devout  growl,  feels 
much  improved  by  his  religious  exercises  ;  and  in  a  peace- 
ful frame  of  mind  pervades  the  body  of  the  church,  glazed 
hat  in  hand,   and  reads  the   tablet  to  the  memorv  of  little 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  449 

Paul.  The  gallant  Mr.  Toots,  attended  by  the  faithful 
Chicken,  leaves  the  building  in  torments  of  love.  The 
Chicken  is  as  yet  unable  to  elaborate  a  scheme  for  winning 
Florence,  but  his  first  idea  has  gained  possession  of  him,  and 
he  thinks  the  doubling  up  of  Mr.  Dombey  would  be  a  move 
in  the  right  direction.  Mr.  Dombey's  servants  come  out  of 
their  hiding-places,  and  prepare  to  rush  to  Brook  Street,  when 
they  are  delayed  by  symptoms  of  indisposition  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Perch,  who  entreats  a  glass  of  water,  and  becomes  alarm- 
ing ;  Mrs.  Perch  gets  better  soon,  however,  and  is 
borne  away  ;  and  Mrs.  Miff,  and  Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle, 
sit  upon  the  steps  to  count  what  they  have  gained  by  the 
affair,  and  talk  it  over,  while  the  sexton  tolls  a  funeral. 

Now  the  carriages  arrive  at  the  bride's  residence,  and  the 
players  on  the  bells  begin  to  jingle,  and  the  band  strikes  up, 
and  Mr.  Punch,  that  model  of  connubial  bliss,  salutes  his 
wife.  Now  the  people  run  and  push,  and  press  around  in  a 
'gaping  throng,  while  Mr.  Dombey,  leading  Mrs.  Dombey  by 
the  hand,  advances  solemnly  into  the  Feenix  Halls.  Now  the 
rest  of  the  wedding-party  alight  and  enter  after  them.  And 
why  does  Mr.  Carker,  passing  through  the  people  to  the  hall- 
door,  think  of  the  old  woman  who  called  to  him  in  the  grove 
that  morning  ?  Or  why  does  Florence,  as  she  passes,  think, 
with  a  tremble,  of  her  childhood,  when  she  was  lost,  and  of 
the  visage  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ? 

Now  there  are  more  congratulations  on  this  happiest  of 
days,  and  more  company,  though  not  much  ;  and  now  they 
leave  the  drawing-room,  and  range  themselves  at  table  in 
the  dark-brown  dining-room,  which  no  confectioner  can 
brighten  up,  let  him  garnish  the  exhausted  negroes  with  as 
many  flowers  and  love-knots  as  he  will. 

The  pastry-cook  has  done  his  duty  like  a  man,  though, 
and  a  rich  breakfast  is  set  forth.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chick 
have  joined  the  party,  among  others.  Mrs.  Chick  admires 
that  Edith  should  be,  by  nature,  such  a  perfect  Dombey  ; 
and  is  affable  and  confidential  to  Mrs.  Skewton,  whose 
mind  is  relieved  of  a  great  load,  and  who  takes  her  share 
of  the  champagne.  The  very  tall  young  man  who  suffered 
from  excitement  early  is  better  ;  but  a  vague  sentiment  of 
repentance  has  seized  upon  him,  and  he  hates  the  other 
very  tall  young  man,  and  wrests  dishes  from  him  by  violence, 
and  takes  a  grim  delight  in  disobliging  the  company.  The 
company  are  cool  and  calm,  and  do  not  outrage  the  black 
hatchments  of  pictures   looking  down  upon  them  by  any 


450  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

• 

excess  of  mirth.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  major  are  the  gay- 
est there  ;  but  Mr.  Carker  has  a  smile  for  the  whole  table. 
He  has  an  especial  smile  for  the  bride,  who  very,  very  sel- 
dom meets  it. 

Cousin  Feenix  rises,  when  the  company  have  breakfasted, 
and  the  servants  have  left  the  room  ;  and  wonderfully  young 
he  looks,  with  his  white  wristbands  almost  covering  his 
hands  (otherwise  rather  bony),  and  the  bloom  of  the 
champagne  in  his  cheeks. 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  although  it's  an 
unusual  sort  of  thing  in  a  private  gentleman's  house,  I  must 
beg  leave  to  call  upon  you  to  drink  what  is  usually  called 
a — in  fact  a  toast." 

The  major  very  hoarsely  indicates  his  approval.  Mr. 
Carker,  bending  his  head  forward  over  the  table  in  the 
direction  of  Cousin  Feenix,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many 
times. 

"  A — in  fact  it's  not  a — "  Cousin  Feenix  beginning  again, 
thus  comes  to  a  dead  stop. 

"  Hear,  hear  !  "  says  the  major  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

Mr.  Carker  softly  claps  his  hands,  and  bending  forward 
over  the  table  again,  smiles  and  nods  a  great  many  more 
times  than  before,  as  if  he  were  particularly  struck  by  this 
last  observation,  and  desired  personally  to  express  his  sense 
of  the  good  it  has  done  him. 

^' It  is,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  ''an  occasion,  in  fact,  when 
the  general  usages  of  life  may  be  a  little  departed  from  with- 
out impropriety  ;  and  although  I  never  was  an  orator  in  my 
life,  and  when  I  was  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  had  the 
honor  of  seconding  the  address,  was — in  fact,  laid  up  for  a 
fortnight  with  the  consciousness  of  failure — " 

The  major  and  Mr.  Carker  are  so  much  delighted  by  this 
fragment  of  personal  history,  that  Cousin  Feenix  laughs,  and, 
addressing  them  individually,  goes  on  to  say  : 

"  And  in  point  of  fact,  when  I  was  devilish  ill — still,  you 
know,  I  feel  that  a  duty  devolves  upon  me.  And  when  a 
duty  devolves  upon  an  Englishman,  he  is  bound  to  get  out 
of  it,  in  my  opinion,  in  the  best  way  he  can.  Well  !  our 
family  has  had  the  gratification,  to-day,  of  connecting  itself, 
in  the  person  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  whom 
I  now  see — in  point  of  fact,  present — " 

Here  there  is  general  applause. 

"  Present,"  repeats  Cousin  Feenix,  feeling  that  it  is  a  neat 
point  which  will  bear  repetition — "  with  one  who — that  is  to 


DOMBEV   AND   SON.  451 

say,  with  a  man,  at  whom  the  finger  of  scorn  can  never — in 
fact,  with  my  honorable  friend  Dombey,  if  he  will  allow  me 
to  call  him  so." 

Cousin  Feenix  bows  to  Mr.  Dombey  ;  Mr.  Dombey  sol- 
emnly returns  the  bow  ;  every  body  is  more  or  less  grati- 
fied and  affected  by  this  extraordinary,  and  perhaps  unpre- 
cedented, appeal  to  the  feelings. 

''  I  have  not,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  enjoyed  those  oppor- 
tunities which  I  could  have  desired,  of  cultivating  the 
acquaintance  of  my  friend  Dombey,  and  studying  those 
qualities  which  do  equal  honor  to  his  head,  and,  in  point  of 
fact,  to  his  heart  ;  for  it  has  been  my  misfortune  to  be,  as  we 
used  to  say  in  my  time  in  the  House  of  Commons,  when  it 
was  not  the  custom  to  allude  to  the  lords,  and  when  the 
order  of  parliamentary  proceedings  was  perhaps  better 
observed  than  it  is  now— to  be  in — in  point  of  fact,"  says 
Cousin  Feenix,  cherishing  his  joke,  with  great  slyness,  and 
finally  bringing  it  out  with  a  jerk,  " '  in  another  place  !'  " 

The  major  falls  into  convulsions,  and  is  recovered  with 
difficulty. 

"But  I  know  sufficient  of  my  friend  Dombey,"  resumes 
Cousin  Feenix,  in  a  graver  tone,  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
become  a  sadder  and  wiser  man,  "  to  know  that  he  is,  in 
point  of  fact,  what  may  be  emphatically  called  a — a  mer- 
chant—a British  merchant— and  a — and  a  man.  And 
although  I  have  been  resident  abroad  for  some  years  (it 
would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  receive  my  friend  Dombey, 
and  every  body  here,  at  Baden-Baden,  and  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  'em  known  to  the  Grand  Duke),  still  I 
know  enough,  I  flatter  myself,  of  my  lovely  and  accom- 
plished relative,  to  know  that  she  possesses  every  requisite  to 
make  a  man  happy,  and  that  her  marriage  with  my  friend 
Dombey  is  one  of  inclination  and  affection  on  both  sides." 
Many  smiles  and  nods  from  Mr.  Carker. 
''Therefore,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "I  congratulate  the 
family  of  which  I  am  a  member  on  the  acquisition  of  my 
friend  Dombey.  I  congratulate  my  friend  Dombey  on  his 
union  with  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  who  pos- 
sesses every  requisite  to  make  a  man  happy  ;  and  I  take  the 
liberty  of  calling  on  you  all,  in  point  of  fact,  to  congratulate 
both  'my  friend  Dombey  and  my  lovely  and  accompHshed 
relative,  on  the  present  occasion." 

The  speech    of  Cousin    Feenix  is    received    with    great 
applause,  and  Mr.  Dombey  returns  thanks  on  behalf  of  him- 


452  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

self  and  Mrs.  Dombey.  J.  B.  shortly  afterward  proposes 
Mrs.  Skewton.  The  breakfast  languishes  when  that  is  done, 
the  violated  hatchments  are  avenged,  and  Edith  rises  to 
assume  her  traveling-dress. 

All  the  servants  in  the  meanwhile  have  been  breakfasting 
below.  Champagne  has  grown  too  common  among  them  to 
be  mentioned,  and  roast  fowls,  raised  pies,  and  lobster-salad, 
have  become  mere  drugs.  The  very  tall  young  man  has 
recovered  his  spirits,  and  again  alludes  to  the  exciseman. 
His  comrade's  eye  begins  to  emulate  his  own,  and  he,  too, 
stares  at  objects  without  taking  cognizance  thereof.  There 
is  a  general  redness  in  the  faces  of  the  ladies  ;  in  the  face  of 
Mrs.  Perch  particularly,  who  is  joyous  and  beaming,  and 
lifted  so  far  above  the  cares  of  life,  that  if  she  were  asked 
just  now  to  direct  a  wayfarer  to  Ball's  Pond,  where  her  own 
cares  lodge,  she  would  have  some  difficulty  in  recalling  the 
way.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  proposed  the  happy  pair  ;  to 
which  the  silver-headed  butler  has  responded  neatly,  and 
with  emotion  ;  for  he  half  begins  to  think  he  is  an  old 
retainer  of  the  family,  and  that  he  is  bound  to  be  affected 
by  these  changes.  The  whole  party,  and  especially  the 
ladies,  are  very  frolicsome.  Mr.  Dombey's  cook,  who  gener- 
ally takes  the  lead  in  society,  has  said,  it  is  impossible  to 
settle  down  after  this,  and  why  not  go,  in  a  party,  to  the  play  ? 
Every  body  (Mrs.  Perch  included),  has  agreed  to  this  ;  even 
the  native,  who  is  tigerish  in  his  drink,  and  who  alarms  the 
ladies  (Mrs.  Perch  particularly)  by  the  rolling  of  his  eyes. 
One  of  the  very  tall  young  men  has  even  proposed  a  ball 
after  the  play,  and  it  presents  itself  to  no  one  (Mrs.  Perch 
included)  in  the  light  of  an  impossibility.  Words  have  arisen 
between  the  house-maid  and  Mr.  Towlinson  ;  she,  on  the 
authority  of  an  old  saw,  asserting  marriages  to  be  made  in 
heaven  ;  he,  affecting  to  trace  the  manufacture  elsewhere  ; 
he,  supposing  that  she  says  so,  because  she  thinks  of  being 
married  her  own  self  ;  she  saying.  Lord  forbid,  at  any  rate, 
that  she  should  ever  marry  ////;/.  To  calm  these  flying  taunts, 
the  silver-headed  butler  rises  to  propose  the  health  of  Mr, 
Towlinson,  whom  to  know  is  to  esteem,  and  to  esteem  is  to 
wish  well  settled  in  life  with  the  object  of  his  choice, 
wherever  (here  the  silver-headed  butler  eyes  the  house-maid) 
she  may  be.  Mr.  Towlinson  returns  thanks  in  a  speech 
replete  with  feeling,  of  which  the  peroration  turns  on  foreign- 
ers, regarding  whom,  he  says,  they  may  find  favor,  some- 
times with  weak  and  inconstant  intellects  that  can   be  led 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  453 

away  by  hair,  but  all  he  hopes  is,  he  may  never  hear  of  no 
foreigner  never  boning  nothing  out  of  no  traveling-chariot. 
The  eye  of  I\Ir.  Towlinson  is  so  severe  and  so  expressive 
here,  that  the  house-maid  is  turning  hysterical,  when  she  and 
all  the  rest,  roused  by  the  intelligence  that  the  bride  is  going 
away,  hurry  up- stairs  to  witness  her  departure. 

The  chariot  is  at  the  door  ;  the  bride  is  descending  to  the 
hall,  where  Mr.  Dombey  waits  for  her.  Florence  is  ready 
on  the  staircase  to  depart  too  ;  and  Miss  Nipper,  who  has 
held  a  middle  state  between  the  parlor  and  the  kitchen,  is 
prepared  to  accompany  her.  As  Edith  appears,  Florence 
hastens  toward  her  to  bid  her  farewell. 

Is  Edith  cold,  that  she  should  tremble  !  Is  there  any 
thing  unnatural  or  unwholesome  in  the  touch  of  Florence, 
that  the  beautiful  form  recedes  and  contracts,  as  if  it  could 
not  bear  it  !  Is  there  so  much  hurry  in  this  going  away,  that 
Edith,  with  a  wave  of  her  hand,  sweeps  on,   and  is  gone  ! 

Mrs.  Skewton,  overpowered  by  her  feelings  as  a  mother, 
sinks  on  her  sofa  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude,  when  the  clatter 
of  the  chariot-wheels  is  lost,  and  sheds  several  tears.  The 
major,  coming  with  the  rest  of  the  company  from  table, 
endeavors  to  comfort  her  ;  but  she  will  not  be  comforted  on 
any  terms,  and  so  the  major  takes  his  leave.  Cousin  Feenix 
takes  his  leave,  and  Mr.  Carker  takes  his  leave.  The  guests 
?l11  go  away.  Cleopatra,  left  alone,  feels  a  little  giddy  from 
her  strong  emotion,  and  falls  asleep. 

Giddiness  prevails  below  stairs  too.  The  very  tall  young 
man  whose  excitement  came  on  so  soon,  appears  to  have  his 
head  glued  to  the  table  in  the  pantry,  and  can  not  be 
detached  from  it.  A  violent  revulsion  has  taken  place  in 
the  spirits  of  Mrs.  Perch,  who  is  low  on  account  of  Mr. 
Perch,  and  tells  cook  that  she  fears  he  is  not  so  much 
attached  to  his  home  as  he  used  to  be  when  they  were  only 
mne  in  family.  Mr.  Towlinson  has  a  singing  in  his  ears  and 
a  large  wheel  going  round  and  round  inside  his  head.  The 
house-maid  wishes  it  wasn't  wicked  to  wish  that  one  was 
dead. 

There  is  a  general  delusion  likewise,  in  these  lower  regions, 
on  the  subject  of  time  ;  every  body  conceiving  that  it  ought 
to  be,  at  the  earliest,  ten  o'clock  at  night,  whereas  it  is  not 
yet  three  in  the  afternoon.  A  shadowy  idea  of  wickedness 
committed  haunts  every  individual  in  the  party  ;  and  each 
one  secretly  thinks  the  other  a  companion  in  guilt,  v/hom  it 
would  be  agreeable  to  avoid.     No  man  or  woman  has  the 


454  DOMBEY   and    son. 

secret  hardihood  to  hint  at  the  projected  visit  to  the  play. 
Any  one  reviving  the  notion  of  the  ball  would  be  scouted  as 
a  malignant  idiot. 

Mrs.  Skewton  sleeps  up-stairs,  two  hours  afterward,  and 
naps  are  not  yet  over  in  the  kitchen.  The  hatchments  in 
the  dining-room  look  down  on  crumbs,  dirty  plates,  spillings 
of  wine,  half-thawed  ice,  stale  discolored  heel-taps,  scraps  of 
lobster,  drumsticks  of  fowls,  and  pensive  jellies,  gradually 
resolving  themselves  into  a  lukewarm  gummy  soup.  The 
marriage  is,  by  this  time,  almost  as  denuded  of  its  show  and 
garnish  as  the  breakfast.  Mr.  Dombey's  servants  moralize 
so  much  about  it,  and  are  so  repentant  over  their  early  tea 
at  home,  that  by  eight  o'clock  or  so  they  settle  down  into 
confirmed  seriousness  ;  and  Mr.  Perch,  arriving  at  that  time 
from  the  city,  fresh  and  jocular,  with  a  white  waistcoat  and  a 
comic  song,  ready  to  spend  the  evening,  and  prepared  for 
any  amount  of  dissipation,  is  amazed  to  find  himself  coldly 
received,  and  Mrs.  Perch  but  poorly,  and  to  have  the  pleas- 
ing duty  of  escorting  that  lady  home  by  the  next  omnibus. 

Night  closes  in.  Florence  having  rambled  through  the 
handsome  house  from  room  to  room,  seeks  her  own  chamber, 
where  the  care  of  Edith  has  surrounded  her  with  luxuries 
and  comforts;  and  divesting  herself  of  her  handsome  dress, 
puts  on  her  old  simple  mourning  for  dear  Paul,  and  sits  down 
to  read,  with  Diogenes  winking  and  blinking  on  the  ground 
beside  her.  But  Florence  can  not  read  to-night.  The  house 
seems  strange  and  new,  and  there  are  loud  echoes  in  it. 
There  is  a  shadow  on  her  heart  ;  she  knows  not  why  or 
what  ;  but  it  is  heavy.  Florence  shuts  her  book,  and  gruff 
Diogenes,  who  takes  that  for  a  signal,  puts  his  paws  upon  her 
lap,  and  rubs  his  ears  against  her  caressing  hands.  But  Flor- 
ence can  not  see  him  plainly  in  a  little  time,  for  there  is  a 
mist  between  her  eyes  and  him,  and  her  dead  brother  and 
dead  mother  shine  in  it  like  angels.  Walter,  too,  poor  wan- 
dering shipwrecked  boy,  oh,  where  is  he  ! 

The  major  don't  know  ;  that's  for  certain  ;  and  don't  care. 
The  major,  having  choked  and  slumbered  all  that  afternoon, 
has  taken  a  late  dinner  at  his  club,  and  now  sits  over  his  pint 
of  wine,  driving  a  modest  young  man,  with  a  fresh-colored 
face,  at  the  next  table  (who  would  give  a  handsome  sum  to 
be  able  to  rise  and  go  away,  but  can  not  do  it)  to  the  verge 
of  madness,  by  anecdotes  of  Bagstock,  sir,  at  Dombey's 
wedding,  and  old  Joe's  devilish  gentlemanly  friend,  Lord 
Feenix.     While  Cousin  Feenix,  who  ought  to  be  at  Long's 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  455 

and  in  bed,  finds  himself,  instead,  at  a  gaming-table,  where 
his  willful  legs  have  taken  him,   perhaps,  in  his  own  despite. 

Night,  like  a  giant,  fills  the  church,  from  pavement  to 
roof,  and  holds  dominion  through  the  silent  hours.  Pale 
dawn  again  comes  peeping  through  the  windows  ;  and,  giving 
place  to  day,  sees  night  withdraw  into  the  vaults,  and  fol- 
lows it,  and  drives  it  out,  and  hides  among  the  dead.  The 
timid  mice  again  cower  close  together,  when  the  great  door 
clashes,  and  Mr.  Sownds  and  Ivlrs.  Miff,  treading  the  circle 
of  their  daily  lives,  unbroken  as  a  marriage  ring,  come  in. 
Again  the  cocked  hat  and  mortified  bonnet  stand  in  the 
background  at  the  marriage  hour  ;  and  again  this  man 
taketh  this  woman,  and  this  woman  taketh  this  man,  on  the 
solemn  terms  : 

"  To  have  and  to  hold,  from  this  day  forward,  for  better 
for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to 
love  and  to  cherish,  until  death  do  them  part." 

The  very  words  that  Mr.  Carker  rides  into  town  repeating, 
with  his  mouth  stretched  to  the  utmost,  as  he  picks  his  dainty 
way. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   WOODEN    MIDSHIPMAN    GOES   TO    PIECES. 

Honest  Captain  Cuttle,  as  the  weeks  flew  over  him  in  his 
fortified  retreat,  by  no  means  abated  any  of  his  prudent  pro- 
visions against  surprise,  because  of  the  non-appearance  of 
the  enemy.  The  captain  argued  that  his  present  security 
was  too  profound  and  wonderful  to  endure  much  longer  ; 
he  knew  that  when  the  wind  stood  in  a  fair  quarter  the  wea- 
ther-cock was  seldom  nailed  there  ;  and  he  was  too  well 
acquainted  with  the  determined  and  dauntless  character  of 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  to  doubt  that  that  heroic  woman  had 
devoted  herself  to  the  task  of  his  discovery  and  capture. 
Trembling  beneath  the  weight  of  these  reasons.  Captain  Cut- 
tle lived  a  very  close  and  retired  life  ;  seldom  stirring  abroad 
until  after  dark  ;  venturing  even  then  only  into  the  obscurest 
streets  ;  never  going  forth  at  all  on  Sundays  ;  and  both 
within  and  without  the  walls  of  his  retreat,  avoiding  bonnets, 
as  if  they  were  worn  by  raging  lions. 

The  captain  never  dreamed  that,  in  the  event  of  his  being 
pounced  upon  by  Mrs.  MacStinger  in  his  walks,  it  would  be 


456  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

possible  to  offer  resistance.  He  felt  that  it  could  not  be 
done.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye,  put  meekly  in  a 
hackney-coach,  and  carried  off  to  his  old  lodgings.  He 
foresaw  that,  once  immured  there,  he  was  a  lost  man  ;  his 
hat  gone  ;  Mrs.  MacStinger  watchful  of  him  day  and  night ; 
reproaches  heaped  upon  his  head,  before  the  infant  fam.ily  ; 
himself  the  guilty  object  of  suspicion  and  distrust ;  an  orge  in 
the  children's  eyes,  and  in  their  mother's  a  detected  traitor. 

A  violent  perspiration,  and  a  lowness  of  spirits  always 
came  over  the  captain  as  this  gloomy  picture  presented  itself 
to  his  imagination.  It  generally  did  so  previous  to  his  steal- 
ing out-of-doors  at  night  for  air  and  exercise.  Sensible  of 
the  risk  he  ran,  the  captain  took  leave  of  Rob,  at  those  times, 
with  the  solemnity  which  became  a  man  who  might  never 
return  ;  exhorting  him,  in  the  event  of  his  (the  captain's) 
being  lost  sight  of  for  a  time,  to  tread  in  the  paths  of  virtue, 
and  keep  the  brazen  instruments  well  polished. 

But  not  to  throw  away  a  chance  ;  and  to  secure  to  himself 
a  means,  in  case  of  the  worst,  of  holding  communication 
with  the  external  world  ;  Captain  Cuttle  soon  conceived  the 
happy  idea  of  teaching  Rob  the  Grinder  some  secret  signal, 
by  which  that  adherent  might  make  his  presence  and  fidelity 
known  to  his  commander  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  After 
much  cogitation,  the  captain  decided  in  favor  of  instructing 
him  to  whistle  the  marine  melody,  "  Oh,  cheerilv,  cheerily  !" 
and  Rob  the  Grinder  attaining  a  point  as  near  perfection  in 
that  accomplishment  as  a  landsman  could  hope  to  reach, 
the  captain  impressed  these  mysterious  instructions  upon  his 
mind  : 

"  Now,  my  lad,  stand  by  !     If  ever  I'm  took — " 

**  Took,  captain  !  "  interposed  Rob,  with  his  round  eyes 
wide  open. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  darkly,  '*if  ever  I  goes  away, 
meaning  to  come  back  to  supper,  and  don't  come  within  hail 
again,  twenty-four  hours  arter  my  loss,  go  you  to  Brig  Place 
and  whistle  that  'ere  tune  near  my  old  moorings — not  as  if 
you  was  a-meaning  of  it,  you  understand,  but  as  if  you'd 
drifted  there,  promiscuous.  If  I  answer  in  that  tune,  you 
sheer  off,  my  lad,  and  come  back  four-and-twenty  hours 
afterward  ;  if  I  answer  in  another  tune,  do  you  stand  off  and 
on,  and  wait  till  I  throw  out  further  signals.  Do  you  under- 
stand them  orders,  now  ?  " 

"  What  am  I  to  stand  off  and  on  of,  captain  ?"  inquired 
Rob.     "  The  horse-road  ?  " 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  457 

''  Here's  a  smart  lad  for  you  !  "  cried  the  captain,  eying 
hirn  sternly,  "  as  don't  know  his  own  native  alphabet  !  Go 
away  a  bit' and  come  back  again  alternate — d'ye  understand 
that'?" 

"Ye6,  captain,"  said  Bob. 

"  Very  good,  my   lad,  then,"  said   the   captain,  relenting. 

''  Do  it !  " 

That  he  might  do  it  the  better,  Captam  Cuttle  sometimes 
condescended,  of  an  evening  after  the  shop  was  shut,  to 
rehearse  this  scene  ;  retiring  into  the  parlor  for  the  purpose, 
as  into  the  lodgings  of  a  supposititious  MacStinger,  and 
carefully  observing  the  behavior  of  his  ally,  from  the  hole  of 
espial  he  had  cut  in  the  wall.  Rob  the  Grinder  discharged 
himself  of  his  duty  with  so  much  exactness  and  judgment, 
when  thus  put  to  the  proof,  that  the  captain  presented  him, 
at  divers  times,  with  seven  sixpences,  in  token  of  satisfaction  ; 
and  gradually  felt  stealing  over  his  spirit  the  resignation  of 
a  man  who  had  made  provision  for  the  worst,  and  taken 
every  reasonable  precaution  against  an  unrelenting  fate. 

Nevertheless,  the  captain  did  not  tem.pt  ill-fortune  by 
being  a  whit  more  venturesome  than  before.  Though  he 
considered  it  a  point  of  good  breeding  in  himself,  as  a  gen- 
eral friend  of  the  family,  to  attend  Mr.  Dombey's  wedding 
(of  which  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Perch),  and  to  show  that 
gentleman  a  pleasant  and  approving  countenance  from  the 
gallerv,  he  had  repaired  to  the  church  in  a  hackney  cabriolet 
with  both  windows  up  ;  and  might  have  scrupled  even  to 
make  that  venture,  in  his  dread  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  but 
that  the  lady's  attendance  on  the  ministry  of  the  Rev.  Mel- 
chisedec  rendered  it  peculiarly  unlikely  that  she  would  be 
found  in  communion  with  the  Establishment. 

The  captain  got  safe  home  again,  and  fell  into  the  ordi- 
nary routine  of  his  new  Hfe,  without  encountering  any  more 
direct  alarm  from  the  enemy  than  was  suggested  to  him  by 
the  daily  bonnets  in  the  street.  But  other  subjects  began  to 
lay  heavy  on  the  captain's  mind.  Walter's  ship  was  still 
unheard  of.  No  news  came  of  old  Sol  Gills.  Florence  did 
not  even  know  of  the  old  man's  disappearance,  and  Captain 
Cuttle  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her.  Indeed  the  captain,  as 
his  own  hopes  of  the  generous,  handsome,  gallant- hearted 
youth,  whom  he  had  loved,  according  to  his  rough  manner, 
from  a  child,  began  to  fade,  and  faded  more  and  more  from 
day  to  day,  shrunk  with  instinctive  pain  from  the  thought  of 
exchanging  a  word  with  Florence.     If  he  had  had  good  news 


458  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

to  carry  to  her,  the  honest  captain  would  have  braved  the 
newly  decorated  house  and  splendid  furniture — though  these, 
connected  with  the  lady  he  had  seen  at  church,  were  awful 
to  him — and  made  his  way  into  her  presence.  With  a  dark 
horizon  gathering  around  their  common  hopes,  however,  that 
darkened  every  hour,  the  captain  almost  felt  as  if  he  were  a 
new  misfortune  and  affliction  to  her  ;  and  was  scarcely  less 
afraid  of  a  visit  from  Florence  than  from  Mrs.  MacStinger 
herself. 

It  was  a  chill  dark  autumn  evening,  and  Captain  Cuttle 
had  ordered  a  fire  to  be  kindled  in  the  little  back  parlor, 
now  more  than  ever  like  the  cabin  of  a  ship.  The  rain  fell 
fast,  and  the  wind  blew  hard  ;  and  straying  out  on  the 
house-top  by  that  stormy  bed-room  of  his  old  friend,  to  take 
an  observation  of  the  weather,  the  captain's  heart  died  within 
him  when  he  saw  how  wild  and  desolate  it  was.  Not  that  he 
associated  the  weather  of  that  time  with  poor  Walter's  des- 
tiny, or  doubted  that  if  Providence  had  doomed  him  to  be 
lost  and  shipwrecked,  it  was  over  long  ago  ;  but  that  beneath 
an  outward  influence,  quite  distinct  from  the  subject-matter 
of  his  thoughts,  the  captain's  spirits  sank,  and  his  hopes 
turned  pale,  as  those  of  wiser  men  had  often  done  before 
him,  and  will  often  do  again. 

Captain  Cuttle,  addressing  his  face  to  the  sharp  wind  and 
slanting  rain,  looked  up  at  the  heavy  scud  that  was  flying 
fast  over  the  wilderness  of  house  tops,  and  looked  for  some- 
thing cheery  there  in  vain.  The  prospect  near  at  hand  was 
no  better.  In  sundry  tea-chests  and  other  rough  boxes  at 
his  feet,  the  pigeons  of  Rob  the  Grinder  were  cooing  like  so 
many  breezes  getting  up.  A  crazy  weather-cock  of  a  mid- 
shipman, with  a  telescope  at  his  eye,  once  visible  from  the 
street,  but  long  bricked  out,  creaked  and  complained  upon 
his  rusty  pivot  as  the  shrill  blast  spun  him  round  and  round, 
and  sported  with  him  cruelly.  Upon  the  captain's  coarse 
blue  vest  the  cold  rain-drops  started  like  steel  beads  ;  and 
he  could  hardly  maintain  himself  aslant  against  the  stiff 
nor'-wester  that  came  pressing  against  him,  importunate  to 
topple  him  over  the  parapet,  and  throw  him  on  the  pavement 
below.  If  there  were  any  Hope  alive  that  evening,  the 
captain  thought,  as  he  held  his  hat  on,  it  certainly  kept 
house,  and  wasn't  out-of-doors  ;  so  the  captain,  shaking  his 
head  in  a  despondent  manner,  went  in  to  look  for  it. 

Captain  Cuttle  descended  slowly  to  the  little  back  parlor, 
and,  seated  in  his  accustomed  chair,  looked  for  it  in  the  fire  ^ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  459 

but  it  was  not  there,  though  the  fire  was  bright.  He  took 
out  his  tobacco-box  and  pipe,  and  composing  himself  to 
smoke,  looked  for  it  in  the  red  glow  from  the  bowl,  and  in 
the  wreaths  of  vapor  that  curled  upward  from  his  lips  ;  but 
there  was  not  so  much  as  an  atom  of  the  rust  of  Hope's 
anchor  in  either.  He  tried  a  glass  of  grog  ;  but  melancholy 
truth  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  well,  and  he  couldn't  finish 
it.  He  made  a  turn  or  two  in  the  shop,  and  looked  for 
Hope  among  the  instruments  ;  but  they  obstinately  worked 
out  reckonings  for  the  missing  ship,  in  spite  of  any  opposi- 
tion he  could  offer,  that  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  lone 
sea. 

The  wind  still  rushing,  and  the  rain  still  pattering,  against 
the  closed  shutters,  the  captain  brought  to  before  the  wooden 
midshipman  upon  the  counter,  and  thought,  as  he  dried  the 
little  officer's  uniform  with  his  sleeve,  how  many  years  the 
midshipman  had  seen,  during  which  few  changes — hardly 
any — had  transpired  among  his  ship's  company  ;  how  the 
changes  had  come  altogether,  one  day,  as  it  might  be  ;  and 
of  what  a  sweeping  kind  they  were.  Here  was  the  little 
society  of  the  back  parlor  broken  up,  and  scattered  far  and 
wide.  Here  was  no  audience  for  Lovely  Peg,  even  if  there 
had  been  any  body  to  sing  it,  which  there  was  not,  for  the 
captain  was  as  morally  certain  that  nobody  but  he  could 
execute  that  ballad,  as  he  was  that  he  had  not  the  spirit 
under  existing  circumstances  to  attempt  it.  There  was  no 
bright  face  of  "  Wal'r  "  in  the  house  (here  the  captain  trans- 
ferred his  sleeve  for  a  moment  from  the  midshipman's  uni- 
form to  his  own  cheek)  ;  the  familiar  wig  and  buttons  of 
Sol  Gills  were  a  vision  of  the  past  ;  Richard  Whittington 
was  knocked  on  the  head  ;  and  every  plan  and  project,  in 
connection  with  the  midshipman,  lay  drifting,  without  mast 
or  rudder,  on  the  waste  of  waters. 

As  the  captain,  with  a  dejected  face,  stood  revolving  these 
thoughts,  and  polishing  the  midshipman,  partly  in  the  ten- 
derness of  old  acquaintance,  and  partly  in  the  absence  of 
his  mind,  a  knocking  at  the  shop  door  communicated  a 
frightful  shock  to  the  frame  of  Rob  the  Grinder  seated  on 
the  counter,  whose  large  eves  had  been  intentlv  fixed  on  the 
captain's  face,  and  who  had  been  debating  within  himself, 
for  the  five  hundredth  time,  whether  the  captain  could  have' 
done  a  murder,  that  he  had  such  an  evil  conscience,  and  was 
always  running  away. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  softly. 


46o  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  Somebody's  knuckles,  captain,"  answered  Rob  the 
Grinder. 

The  captain,  with  an  abashed  and  guilty  air,  immediately 
sneaked  on  tiptoe  to  the  little  parlor,  and  locked  himself  in. 
Rob,  opening  the  door,  would  have  parleyed  with  the  visitor 
on  the  threshold  if  the  visitor  had  come  in  female  guise  ; 
but  the  figure  being  of  the  male  sex,  and  Rob's  orders  only 
applying  to  women,  Rob  held  the  door  open  and  allowed  it 
to  enter,  which  it  did  very  quickly,  glad  to  get  out  of  the 
driving  rain. 

"  A  job  for  Burgess  and  Co.,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  visitor, 
looking  over  his  shoulder  compassionately  at  his  own  legs, 
which  were  very  w^et  and  covered  with  splashes.  "  Oh,  how- 
de-do,  Mr.  Gills  ?  " 

The  salutation  was  addressed  to  the  captain,  now  emerg- 
ing from  the  back  parlor  with  a  most  transparent  and  utterly 
futile  affectation  of  coming  out  by  accident. 

'*  Thankee,"  the  gentleman  went  on  to  say  in  the  same 
breath  ;  '*  I'm  very  well  indeed,  myself,  I'm  much  obliged 
to  you.     My  name  is  Toots — Mister  Toots." 

The  captain  remembered  to  have  seen  this  young  gentle- 
man at  the  wedding,  and  made  him  a  bow.  Mr.  Toots  replied 
with  a  chuckle  ;  and  being  embarrassed,  as  he  generally  was, 
breathed  hard,  shook  hands  with  the  captain  for  a  long  time, 
and  then  falling  on  Rob  the  Grinder,  in  the  absence  of  any 
other  resource,  shook  hands  with  him  in  a  most  affectionate 
and  cordial  manner. 

"  I  say  ;  I  should  like  to  speak  a  word  to  you,  Mr.  Gills, 
if  you  please,"  said  Toots  at  length,  with  surprising  presence 
of  mind.     "  I  say  !  Miss  D.  O.  M.  you  know  !  " 

The  captain,  with  responsive  gravity  and  mystery,  imme- 
diately waved  his  hook  toward  the  little  parlor,  whither  Mr. 
Toots  followed  him. 

*'  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  though,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  look- 
ing up  in  the  captain's  face  as  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the 
fire,  which  the  captain  placed  for  him  ;  "  you  don't  happen 
to  know  the  Chicken  at  all  ;  do  you,  Mr.  Gills  ?  " 

*'  The  Chicken  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  The  Game  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
^  The  captain  shaking  his  head,  Mr.  Toots  explained  that 
the  man  alluded  to  was  the  celebrated  public  character  who 
had  covered  himself  and  his  country  with  glory  in  his  contest 
with  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One  ;  but  this  piece  of  informa- 
tion did  not  appear  to  enlighten  the  captain  very  much. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  4<5i 

"  Because  he's  outside  ;  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
■'  But  it's  of  no  consequence  ;  he  won't  get  very  wet, 
perhaps." 

"lean  pass  the  word  for  him  in  a  moment,"  said  the 
captain. 

"  Well,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  let  him  sit  in 
the  shop  with  your  young  man,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  "I 
should  be  glad  ;  because,  you  know,  he's  easily  offended, 
and  the  damp's  rather  bad  for  his  stamina.  Fll  call  him  in, 
Mr.  Gills." 

With  that,  Wx.  Toots,  repairing  to  the  shop-door,  sent  a 
peculiar  <vhistle  into  the  night,  which  produced  a  stoical 
gentleman  in  a  shaggy  white  great-coat  and  a  flat-brimmed 
hat,  with  very  short  hair,  a  broken  nose,  and  a  considerable 
tract  of  bare  and  sterile  country  behind  each  ear. 

''  Sit  down,  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

The  compliant  Chicken  spat  out  some  small  pieces  of 
straw  on  which  he  was  regaUng  himself,  and  took  in  a  fresh 
supply  from  a  reserve  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

''  There  ain't  no  drain  of  nothing  short  handy,  is  there  ?  " 
said  the  Chicken,  generally.  "  This  here  sluicing  night  is 
hard  lines  to  a  man  as  lives  on  his  condition." 

Captain  Cuttle  proffered  a  glass  of  rum,  which  the  Chicken, 
throwing  back  his  head,  emptied  into  himself,  as  into  a  cask, 
after  proposing  the  brief  sentiment,  "  Toward  us  !  "  Mr. 
Toots  and  the  captain  returning  then  to'  the  parlor,  and  tak- 
ing their  seats  before  the  fire,  Mr.   Toots  began  : 

"  Mr.  Gills—" 

"  Awast  !  "  said  the  captain.     "  My  name's  Cuttle." 

Mr.  Toots  looked  greatly  disconcerted,  while  the  captain 
proceeded  gravely. 

''  Cap' en  Cuttle  is  my  name,  and  England  is  my  nation, 
this  here  is  my  dwelling-place,  and  blessed  be  creation — 
Job,"  said  the  captain,  as  an  index  to  his  authority. 

''  Oh  !  I  couldn't  see  Mr.  Gills,  could  I  ?  "  said  Mr.  Toots  ; 
"  because — " 

"  If  you  could  see  Sol  Gills,  young  genTm'n,"  said  the 
captain,  impressively,  and  laying  his  heavy  hand  on  Mr. 
Toots'sknee,  "  old  Sol,  mind  you— with  your  own  eyes — as 
you  sit  there — you'd  be  welcomer  to  me  than  a  wind  astarn 
to  a  ship  becalmed.  But  you  can't  see  Sol  Gills.  And 
^Yhy  can't  you  see  Sol  Gills  ?  "  said  the  captain,  apprised  by 
the  face  of  Mr.  Toots  that  he  was  making  a  profound  impres- 
sion on  that  gentleman's  mind.     "  Because  he's  inwisible." 


4(52  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Mr,  Toots  in  his  agitation  was  going  to  reply  that  it  was 
of  no  consequence  at  all.  But  he  corrected  himself,  and 
said,  **  Lor'  bless  me  !  " 

"  That  there  man,"  said  the  captain,  "  has  left  me  in  charge 
here  by  a  piece  of  writing,  but  though  he  was  a'most  as  good 
as  my  sworn  brother,  I  know  no  more  where  he's  gone,  or 
why  he's  gone  ;  if  so  be  to  seek  his  nevy,  or  if  so  be  along 
of  being  not  quite  settled  in  his  mind  ;  than  you  do.  One 
morning  at  da3'break,  he  went  over  the  side,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, "  without  a  splash,  without  a  ripple.  I  have  looked 
for  that  man  high  and  low,  and  never  set  eyes,  nor  ears,  nor 
nothing  else,  upon  him,  from  that  hour." 

"  But,  good  gracious,  Miss  Dombey  don't  know — "  Mr. 
Toots  began. 

"  Why,  I  ask  you,  as  a  feeling  heart,"  said  the  captain, 
dropping  his  voice,  'Svhy  should  she  know  ?  why  should  she 
be  made  to  know,  until  such  time  as  there  warn't  any  help' 
for  it  ?  She  took  to  old  Sol  Gills,  did  that  sweet  creetur, 
with  a  kindness,  with  a  affability,  with  a — what's  the  good  o/ 
saying  so  ?  you  know  her." 

''  I  should  hope  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  conscious 
blush  that  suffused  his  whole  countenance. 

"  And  you  come  here  from  her  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

"  I  should  think  so,"  chuckled  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Then  all  I  need  observe  is,"  said  the  captain,  "  that  you 
know  a  angel,  and  are  chartered  ly  a.  angel." 

Mr.  Toots  instantly  seized  the  captain's  hand,  and 
requested  the  favor  of  his  friendship. 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  earnestly, 
''  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  improve  my 
acquaintance.  I  should  like  to  know  you,  captain,  very  much. 
I  really  am  in  want  of  a  friend,  I  am.  Little  Dombey  was 
my  friend  at  old  Blimber's,  and  would  have  been  now,  if 
he'd  have  lived.  The  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  for- 
lorn whisper,  "  is  very  well — admirable  in  his  way — the 
sharpest  man,  perhaps,  in  the  world  ;  there's  not  a  move  he 
isn't  up  to,  every  body  says  so-butldon't  know — he's  not 
every  thing.  So  she  ts  an  angel,  captain.  If  there  is  an 
angel  anywhere,  it's  Miss  Dombey.  That's  what  Lve  always 
said.  Really  though,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should 
be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you'd  cultivate  mv  acquaint- 
ance." 

Captain  Cuttle  received  this  proposal  in  a  polite  manner, 
but    still    without  committing    himself  to   its    aeceptance  ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  463 

merely  observing,  "  Ay,  ay,  my  lad.  We  shall  see,  we  shall 
see  ;  "  and  reminding  Mr.  Toots  of  his  immediate  mission, 
by  inquiring  to  what  he  was  indebted  for  the  honor  of  that 
visit. 

''  Why  the  fact  is,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  it's  the 
young  woman  I  come  from.  Not  Miss  Dombey — Susan  you 
know." 

The  captain  nodded  his  head  once,  with  a  grave  expres- 
sion of  face,  indicative  of  his  regarding  that  young  woman 
with  serious  respect. 

*'  And  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happens,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  You 
know,  I  go  and  call  sometimes  on  Miss  Dombey.  I  don't  go 
there  on  purpose,  you  know,  but  I  happen  to  be  in  the  neigh- 
borhood very  often  ;  and  when  I  find  myself  there,  why — 
why  I  call." 

*'  Nat'rally,"  observed  the  captain. 

*'  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  I  called  this  afternoon.  Upon 
my  word  and  honor,  I  don't  think  it's  possible  to  form  an 
idea  of  the  angel  Miss  Dombey  was  this  afternoon." 

The  captain  answered  with  a  jerk  of  his  head,  implying 
that  it  might  not  be  easy  to  some  people,  but  was  quite  so  to 
him. 

"As  I  was  coming  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "the  young 
woman,  in  the  most  unexpected  manner,  took  me  into  the 
pantry." 

The  captain  seemed,  for  the  moment,  to  object  to  this 
proceeding  ;  and  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  looked  at  Mr. 
Toots  with  a  distrustful,  if  not  threatening  visage. 

"  Where  she  brought  out,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "this  news- 
paper. She  told  me  that  she  had  kept  it  from  Miss  Dombey 
all  day,  on  account  of  something  that  was  in  it  about  some- 
body that  she  and  Dombey  used  to  know  ;  and  then  she 
read  the  pas^ge  to  me.  Very  well.  Then  she  said — wait 
a  minute  ;  what  was  it  she  said,  though  !  " 

Mr.  Toots,  endeavoring  to  concentrate  his  mental  powers 
on  this  question,  unintentionally  fixed  the  captain's  eye,  and 
was  so  much  discomposed  by  its  stern  expression,  that  his 
difficulty  in  resuming  the  thread  of  his  subject  was  enhanced 
to  a  painful  extent. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  long  consideration.  "  Oh, 
ah  !  Yes  !  She  said  that  she  hoped  there  was  a  bare  possi- 
bility that  it  mightn't  be  true  ;  and  that  as  she  couldn't  very 
well  come  out  herself  without  surprising  Miss  Dombey, 
would   I  go    down   to  Mr,    Solomon  Gills  the  instrument- 


4<54  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

maker's  in  this  street,  who  was  the  party's  uncle,  and  ask 
whether  he  beheved  it  was  true,  or  had  heard  any  thing  else 
in  the  city.  She  said,  if  he  couldn't  speak  to  me,  no  doubt 
Captain  Cuttle  could.  By-the-by  ! "  said  Mr.  Toots,  as 
the  discovery  flashed  upon  him,  "  you,  you  know  I " 

The  captain  glanced  at  the  newspaper  in  Mr.  Toots's  hand, 
and  breathed  short  and  hurriedly. 

"  Well,"  pursued  Mr.  Toots,  "the  reason  why  I'm  rather 
late  is,  because  I  went  up  as  far  as  Finchley  first,  to  get  some 
uncommonly  fine  chickweed  that  grows  there,  for  Miss  Dom- 
bey's  bird.  But  I  came  on  here  directly  afterward.  You've 
seen  the  paper,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  captain,  who  had  become  cautious  of  reading  the 
news,  lest  he  should  find  himself  advertised  at  full  length  by 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  shook  his  head. 

**  Shall  I  read  the  passage  to  you  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Toots. 

The  captain  making  a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  Mr.  Toots 
read  as  follows,  from  the  Shipping  Intelligence  : 

"  '  Southampton.  The  bark  Defiance^  Henry  James,  com- 
mander, arrived  in  this  port  to-day,  with  a  cargo  of  sugar, 
coffee,  and  rum,  reports  that  being  becalmed  on  the  sixth 
day  of  her  passage  home  from  Jamaica,  in' — in  such  and 
such  a  latitude,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after  making  a 
feeble  dash  at  the  figures,  and  tumbling  over  them. 

"  Ay  !  "  cried  the  captain,  striking  his  clenched  hand'on 
the  table.     "  Heave  ahead,  my  lad  !  " 

"  —  latitude,"  repeated  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  startled  glance 
at  the  captain,  "  and  longitude  so-and-so, —  '  the  look-out 
observed,  half  an  hour  before  sunset,  some  fragments  of  a 
wreck,  drifting  at  about  the  distance  of  a  mile.  The 
weather  being  clear,  and  the  bark  making  no  way,  a  boat 
was  hoisted  out,  with  orders  to  inspect  the  same,  when  they 
were  found  to  consist  of  sundry  large  spars,  and  a  part  of 
the  main  rigging  of  an  English  brig  of  about  five  hundred 
tons  burden,  together  with  a  portion  of  the  stern  on  which 
the  words  and  letters  ''Son  and  ^— "  were  yet  plainly 
legible.  No  vestige  of  any  dead  body  was  to  be  seen  upon 
the  floating  fragments.  Log  of  the  Defiance  states,  that  a 
breeze  springing  up  in  the  night,  the  wreck  was  seen  no 
more.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  surmises  as  to  the 
fate  of  the  missing  vessel,  the  Son  and  Heir^  port  of  London, 
bound  for  Barbados,  are  now  set  at  rest  forever  ;  that  she 
broke  up  in  the  last  hurricane,  and  that  every  soul  on 
board  perished.'  " 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  465 

Captain  Cuttle,  like  all  mankind,  little  knew  how  much 
hope  had  survived  within  him  under  discouragement  until 
he  felt  its  death-shock.  During  the  reading  of  the  para- 
graph, and  for  a  minute  or  two  afterward,  he  sat  with  his 
gaze  fixed  on  the  modest  Mr.  Toots,  like  a  man  entranced  ; 
then  suddenly  rising,  and  putting  on  his  glazed  hat,  which,  in 
his  visitor's  honor,  he  had  laid  upon  the  table,  the  captain 
turned  his  back  and  bent  his  head  down  on  the  little 
chimney-piece. 

"  Oh,  upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  whose 
tender  heart  was  moved  by  the  captain's  unexpected  distress, 
"  this  is  a  most  wretched  sort  of  affair  this  world  is  !  Some- 
body's always  dying,  or  going  and  doing  something  uncom- 
fortable in  it.  I'm  sure  I  never  should  have  looked  forward 
so  much  to  coming  into  my  property  if  I  had  known  this.  I 
never  saw  such  a  world.  It's  a  great  deal  worse  than 
BHmber's." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  altering  his  position,  signed  to  Mr. 
Toots  not  to  mind  him  ;  and  presently  turned  round,  with 
his  glazed  hat  thrust  back  upon  his  ears,  and  his  hand 
composing  and  smoothing  his  brown  face. 

"  Wal'r,  my  dear  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  farewell !  Wal'r, 
my  child,  my  boy,  and  man,  I  loved  you  I  He  warn't  my 
flesh  and  blood,"  said  the  captain,  looking  at  the  fire —  "  I 
ain't  got  none — but  something  of  what  a  father  feels  when 
he  loses  a  son,  I  feel  in  losing  Wal'r.  For  why  ?  "  said  the 
captain  ;  "  because  it  ain't  one  loss,  but  a  round  dozen. 
Where's  that  there  young  school-boy  with  the  rosy  face  and 
curly  hair,  that  used  to  be  as  merry  in  this  here  parlor,  come 
round  every  week,  as  a  piece  of  music  ?  Gone  down  with 
Wal'r.  Where's  that  there  fresh  lad,  that  nothing  couldn't 
tire  nor  put  out,  and  that  sparkled  up  and  blushed  so,  when 
we  joked  him  about  Heart's  Delight,  that  he  was  beautiful 
to  look  at?  Gone  down  with  Wal'r.  Where's  that  there 
man's  spirit,  all  afire,  that  wouldn't  see  the  old  man  hove 
down  for  a  minute,  and  cared  nothing  for  itself  ?  Gone 
down  with  Wal'r.  It  ain't  one  Wal'r.  There  was  a  dozen 
Wal'rs  that  I  know'd  and  loved,  all  holding  round  his  neck 
when  he  went  down,  and  they're  a-holding  round  mine 
now  ! " 


Mr.  Toots  sat  silent ;  folding  and  refolding  the  newspa- 
per as  small  as  possible  upon  his  knee. 

*'  And  Sol  Gills,"  said  the  captain,  gazing  at  the  fire, 
"  poor  nevyless  old  Sol,  where  s.Tcyou  got  to  ?    You  was  left 


466  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in  charge  of  me  ;  his  last  words  was,  *  Take  care  of  my 
uncle.'  What  came  over  j-c;?^,  Sol,  when  you  went  and  gave 
the  go-by  to  Ned  Cuttle  ;  and  what  am  I  to  put  in  my 
accounts  that  he's  a-looking  down  upon,  respecting  you  ! 
Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills  !  "  said  the  captain,  shaking  his  head 
slov/ly,  "  catch  sight  of  that  there  newspaper  away  from  home, 
with  no  one  as  know'd  Wal'r  by,  to  say  a  word  ;  and  broad- 
side to  you  broach,  and  down  you  pitch,  head  foremost !  " 

Drawing  a  heavy  sigh,  the  captain  turned  to  Mr.  Toots, 
and  roused  himself  to  a  sustained  consciousness  of  that  gen- 
tleman's presence, 

''  My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  "  you  must  tell  the  young 
woman  honestly  that  this  here  fatal  news  is  too  correct. 
They  don't  romance,  you  see,  on  such  pints.  It's  entered  on 
the  ship's  log,  and  that's  the  truest  book  as  a  man  can  write. 
To-morrow  morning,"  said  the  captain,  "  I'll  step  out  and 
make  inquiries  ;  but  they'll  lead  to  no  good.  They  can't  do 
it.  If  you'll  give  me  a  look-in  in  the  forenoon,  you  shall 
know  what  I  have  heerd  ;  but  tell  the  young  woman  from 
Cap'en  Cuttle  that  it's  over.  Over  ! "  And  the  captain, 
hooking  off  his  glazed  hat,  pulled  his  handkerchief  out  of 
the  crown,  wiped  his  grizzled  head  despairingly,  and  tossed 
the  handkerchief  in  again,  with  the  indifference  of  deep 
dejection. 

"  Oh  !  I  assure  you,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''  really  I  am  dread- 
fully sorry.  Upon  my  word  I  am,  though  I  wasn't 
acquainted  with  the  party.  Do  you  think  Miss  Dombey  will 
be  very  much  affected,  Captain  Gills — I  mean  Mr.  Cuttle  ?  " 

"  Why,  Lord  love  you,"  returned  the  captain,  with  some- 
thing of  compassion  for  Mr.  Toots's  innocence,  *'  when 
she  warn't  no  higher  than  that,  they  were  as  fond  of  one 
another  as  two  young  doves." 

''  Were  they,  though  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  consider- 
ably lengthened  face. 

"  They  were  made  for  one  another,"  said  the  captain, 
mournfully  ;  "  but  what  signifies  that  now  ?" 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  blurting  out 
his  words  through  a  singular  combination  of  awkward 
chuckles  and  emotion,  '*  I'm  even  more  sorry  than  I  was 
before.  You  know.  Captain  Gills,  I — I  positively  adore 
Miss  Dombey  ; — I — I  am  perfectly  sore  with  loving  her  ;" 
the  burst  with  which  this  confession  forced  itself  out  of  the 
unhappy  Mr.  Toots,  bespoke  the  vehemence  of  his  feelings  ; 
**  but  what  would  be  the  good  of  my  regarding  her  in  this 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  467 

manner,  if  I  wasn't  truly  sorry  for  her  feeling  pain,  whatever 
was  the  caiiseof  it.  Mine  ain't  a  selfish  affection,  you  know," 
said  i\Ir.  Toots,  in  the  confidence' engendered  by  his  having 
been  a  witness  of  the  captain's  tenderness.  "  It's  the  sort 
of  thing  with  me,  Captain  Gills,  that  if  I  could  be  run  over 
— or — or  trampled  upon — or — or  thrown  off  a  very  high 
place — or  any  thing  of  that  sort  for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  it 
would  be  the  most  delightful  thing  that  could  happen  to 
me. 

All  this  Mr.  Toots  said  in  a  suppressed  voice,  to  prevent 
its  reaching  the  jealous  ears  of  the  Chicken,  who  objected  to 
the  softer  emotions  ;  which  effort  of  restraint,  coupled  with 
the  intensity  of  his  feelings,  made  him  red  to  the  tips  of  his 
ears,  and  caused  him  to  present  such  an  affecting  spectacle 
of  disinterested  love  to  the  eyes  of  Captain  Cuttle,  that  the 
good  captain  patted  him  consolingly  on  the  back,  and  bade 
him  cheer  up. 

''  Thankee,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''  it's  kind  of 
you  in  the  midst  of  your  own  troubles,  to  say  so.  I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you.  As  I  said  before,  I  really  want  a 
friend,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  your  acquaintance. 
Although  I  am  very  well  off,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  energy, 
"  you  can't  think  what  a  miserable  beast  I  am.  The  hollow 
crowd,  you  know,  when  they  see  me  with  the  Chicken,  and 
characters  of  distinction  like  that,  suppose  me  to  be  happy  ; 
but  I  am  wretched.  I  suffer  for  Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills. 
I  can't  get  through  my  meals  ;  I  have  no  pleasure  in  my 
tailor  ;  I  often  cry  when  I'm  alone.  I  assure  you  it'll  be  a 
satisfaction  to  me  to  come  back  to-morrow,  or  to  come  back 
fifty  times." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  these  words,  shook  the  captain's  h-and  ; 
and  disguising  such  traces  of  his  agitation  as  could  be  dis- 
guised on  so  short  a  notice,  before  the  Chicken's  penetrating 
glance,  rejoined  that  eminent  gentleman  in  the  shop.  The 
Chicken,  who  was  apt  to  be  jealous  of  his  ascendency,  eyed 
Captain  Cuttle  with  any  thing  but  favor  as  he  took  leave  of 
Mr.  Toots  ;  but  followed  his  patron  without  being  otherwise 
demonstrative  of  his  ill-will  ;  leaving  the  captain 
oppressed  with  sorrow  ;  and  Rob  the  Grinder  elevated  with 
joy,  on  account  of  having  had  the  honor  of  staring  for  nearly 
half  an  hour  at  the  conqueror  of  the  Nobby  Shropshire  One. 

Long  after  Rob  was  asleep  in  his  bed  under  the  counter, 
the  captain  sat  looking  at  the  fire  ;  and  long  after  there  was 
no  fire  to  look  at,  the  captain  sat  gazing  on  the  rusty  bars, 


4^5  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

with  unavailing  thoughts  of  Walter  and  old  Sol  crowding 
through  his  mind.  Retirement  to  the  stormy  chamber  at 
the  top  of  the  house  brought  no  rest  with  it  ;  and  the  cap- 
tain rose  up  in  the  morning,  sorrowful  and  unrefreshed. 

As  soon  as  the  city  offices  were  open,  the  captain  issued 
forth  to  the  counting-house  of  Dombey  and  Son.  But  there 
was  no  opening  of  the  midshipman's  windows  that  morning. 
Rob  the  Grinder,  by  the  captain's  orders,  left  the  shutters 
closed,  and  the  house  was  as  a  house  of  death. 

It  chanced  that  Mr.  Carker  was  entering  the  office  as  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  arrived  at  the  door.  Receiving  the  manager's 
benison  gravely  and  silently.  Captain  Cuttle  made  bold  to 
accompany  him  into  his  own  room. 

"  Well,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  taking  up  his 
usual  position  before  the  fire-place,  and  keeping  on  his  hat, 
'^this  is  a  bad  business." 

"  You  have  received  the  news  as  was  in  print  yesterday, 
sir?  "  said  the  captain. 

''Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "we  have  received  it  !  It  was 
accurately  stated.  The  underwriters  suffer  a  considerable 
loss.     We  are  very  sorry.     No  help  !     Such  is  life  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  pared  his  nails  delicately  with  a  pen-knife,  and 
smiled  at  the  captain,  who  was  standing  by  the  door  looking 
at  him. 

"I  excessively  regret  poor  Gay,"  said  Carker,  "  and  the 
crew.  I  understand  there  were  some  of  our  very  best  men 
among  'em.  It  always  happens  so.  Many  men  with  fami- 
lies too.  A  comfort  to  reflect  that  poor  Gay  had  no  family, 
Captain  Cuttle  !  " 

The  captain  stood  rubbing  his  chin,  and  looking  at  the 
manager.  The  manager  glanced  at  the  unopened  letter  lying 
on  his  desk,  and  took  up  the  newspaper. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do  for  you.  Captain  Cuttle  ? " 
he  asked,  looking  off  it,  with  a  smiling  and  expressive  glance 
at  the  door. 

"  I  wish  you  could  set  my  mind  at  rest,  sir,  on  something 
it's  uneasy  about,"  returned  the  captain. 

"Ay!"  exclaimed  the  manager,  "what's  that?  Come, 
Captain  Cuttle,  I  must  trouble  you  to  be  quick,  if  you  please. 
I  am  much  engaged." 

"  Lookee  here,  sir,"  said  the  captain,  advancing  a  step. 
"  Afore  my  friend  Wal'r  went  on  this  here  disastrous  voy- 
age-" 

"Come,   eome,  Captain  Cuttle,"  interposed   the    smiling 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  469 

manager,  "  don't  talk  about  disastrous  voyages  in  that  way. 
We  have  nothing  to  do  with  disastrous  voyages  here,  my 
good  fellow.  You  must  have  begun  very  early  on  your  day's 
allowance,  captain,  if  you  don't  remember  that  there  are 
hazards  in  all  voyages,  whether  by  sea  or  land.  You  are  not 
made  uneasy  by  the  supposition  that  young  what's-his-name 
was  lost  in  bad  weather  that  was  got  up  against  him  in  these 
offices — are  you  ?  Fie,  captain  !  Sleep  and  soda-water  are 
the  best  cures  for  such  uneasiness  as  that." 

**  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  slowly — "you  are  a'most 
a  lad  to  me,  and  so  I  don't  ask  your  pardon  for  that  slip  of  a 
word — if  you  find  any  pleasure  in  this  here  sport,  you  ain't 
the  gentleman  I  took  you  for,  and  if  you  ain't  the  gentleman 
I  took  you  for  may  be  my  mind  has  call  to  be  uneasy.  Now 
this  is  what  it  is,  Mr.  Carker.  Afore  that  poor  lad  went 
away,  according  to  orders,  he  told  me  that  he  warn't  going 
away  for  his  own  good,  or  for  promotion,  he  know'd.  It 
was  my  belief  that  he  was  wrong,  and  I  told  him  so,  and  I 
come  here,  your  head  governor  being  absent,  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion or  two  of  you  in  a  civil  way,  for  my  own  satisfaction. 
Them  questions  you  answered — free.  Now  it'll  ease  my 
mind  to  know,  when  all  is  over,  as  it  is,  and  when  what  can't 
be  cured  must  be  endoored — for  which,  as  a  scholar,  you'll 
overhaul  the  book  it's  in,  and  thereof  make  a  note — to  know 
once  more,  in  a  word,  that  I  warn't  mistaken  ;  that  I  warn't 
back'ard  in  my  duty  when  I  didn't  tell  the  old  man  what 
Wal'r  told  me  ;  and  that  the  wind  was  truly  in  his  sail  when 
he  highsted  of  it  for  Barbados  Harbor.  ^Ir.  Carker,"  said 
the  captain,  in  the  goodness  of  his  nature,  *'  when  I  was  here 
last  we  was  very  pleasant  together.  If  I  ain't  been  altogether 
so  pleasant  myself  this  morning,  on  account  of  this  poor 
lad,  and  if  I  have  chafed  again  any  observation  of  yours  that 
I  might  have  fended  off,  my  name  is  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  and  I 
ask  your  pardon." 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  the  manager,  with  all  possible 
politeness,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  do  m.e  a  favor." 

"  And  what  is  it,  sir  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  To  have  the  goodness  to  walk  off,  if  you  please,"  rejoined 
the  manager,  stretching  forth  his  arm,  "  and  to  carry  your 
jargon  somewhere  else." 

Every  knob  in  the  captain's  face  turned  white  with  aston- 
ishment and  indignation  ;  even  the  red  rim  on  his  forehead 
faded,  like  a  rainbow  among  the  gathering  clouds. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  the  manager,  shak- 


470  DOMBEY  AND  SON, 

ing  his  forefinger  at  him,  and  showing  him  all  his  teeth,  but 
still  amiably  smiling,  "  I  was  much  too  lenient  wdth  you 
when  you  came  here  before.  You  belong  to  an  artful  and 
audacious  set  of  people.  In  my  desire  to  save  young  what's- 
his-name  from  being  kicked  out  of  this  place,  neck  and  crop, 
my  good  captain,  I  tolerated  you  ;  but  for  once,  and  only 
once.     Now,  go,  my  friend  !  " 

The  captain  was  absolutely  rooted  to  the  ground,  and 
speechless. 

**  Go,"  said  the  good-humored  manager,  gathering  up  his 
skirts,  and  standing  astride  upon  the  hearth-rug,  "  like  a  sen- 
sible fellow,  and  let  us  have  no  turning  out,  or  any  such 
violent  measures.  If  Mr.  Dombey  were  here,  captain,  you 
might  be  obliged  to  leave  in  a  more  ignominious  manner, 
possibly.     I  merely  say.  Go  !  " 

The  captain,  laying  his  ponderous  hand  upon  his  chest,  to 
assist  himself  in  fetching  a  deep  breath,  looked  at  Mr.  Car- 
ker  from  head  to  foot,  and  looked  around  the  little  room,  as 
if  he  did  not  clearly  understand  where  he  was,  or  in  what 
company. 

"  You  are  deep.  Captain  Cuttle,"  pursued  Carker,  with  the 
easy  and  vivacious  frankness  of  a  man  of  the  world,  who 
knew  the  world  too  well  to  be  ruffled  by  any  discovery  of 
misdoing,  when  it  did  not  immediately  concern  himself  ; 
"  but  you  are  not  quite  out  of  soundings  either — neither  you 
nor  your  absent  friend,  captain.  What  have  you  done  with 
your  absent  friend,  hey  ?  " 

Again  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  chest.  After 
drawing  another  deep  breath,  he  conjured  himself  to  "  stand 
by  !  "     But  in  a  whisper. 

'^  You  hatch  nice  little  plots,  and  hold  nice  little  councils, 
and  make  nice  little  appointments,  and  receive  nice  little 
visitors,  too,  captain,  hey  ?  "  said  Carker,  bending  his  brows 
upon  him,  without  showing  his  teeth  any  the  less  ;  "  but  it's 
a  bold  measure  to  come  here  afterward.  Not  like  your  dis- 
cretion !  You  conspirators,  and  hiders,  and  runners-away, 
should  know  better  than  that.  Will  you  oblige  me  by 
going?" 

'*  My  lad,"  gasped  the  captain,  in  a  choked  and  trembling 
voice,  and  with  a  curious  action  going  on  in  the  ponderous 
fist  ;  ''  there's  a-many  words  I  could  wish  to  say  to  you,  but 
I  don't  rightly  know  where  they're  stowed  just  at  present. 
My  young  friend,  Wal'r,  was  drownded  only  last  night, 
according  to  my  reckoning,   and  it  puts  me  out,  you  see. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  471 

But  you  and  me  will  come  alongside  o'  one  another  again, 
my  lad,"  holding  up  his  hook,  ''  if  we  live." 

"  It  will  be  any  thing  but  shrewd  in  you,  my  good  fellow, 
if  we  do,"  returned  the  manager,  with  the  same  frankness  ; 
"  for  you  may  rely,  I  give  you  fair  warning,  upon  my  detect- 
ing and  exposing  you.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a  more  moral 
man  than  my  neighbors,  my  good  captain  ;  but  the  confi- 
dence of  this  house,  or  of  any  member  of  this  house,  is  not 
to  be  abused  and  undermined  while  I  have  eyes  and  ears. 
Good-day  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  nodding  his  head. 

Captain  Cuttle,  looking  at  him  steadily  (Mr.  Carker  looked 
full  as  steadily  at  the  captain),  went  out  of  the  office  and 
left  him  standing  astride  before  the  fire,  as  calm  and  pleasant 
as  if  there  were  no  more  spots  upon  his  soul  than  on  his 
pure  white  linen  and  his  smooth  sleek  skin. 

The  captain  glanced,  in  passing  through  the  outer  count- 
ing-house, at  the  desk  where  he  knew  poor  Walter  had  been 
used  to  sit,  now  occupied  by  another  young  boy,  with  a  face 
almost  as  fresh  and  hopeful  as  his  on  the  day  when  they 
tapped  the  famous  last  bottle  but  one  of  the  old  Madeira  in 
the  little  back  parlor.  The  association  of  ideas  thus  awak- 
ened did  the  captain  a  great  deal  of  good  ;  it  softened  him 
in  the  very  height  of  his  anger,  and  brought  the  tears  into 
his  eyes. 

Arrived  at  the  wooden  midshipman's  again,  and  sitting 
down  in  a  corner  of  the  dark  shop,  the  captain's  indignation, 
strong  as  it  was,  could  make  no  head  against  his  grief.  Pas- 
sion seemed  not  only  to  do  wrong  and  violence  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead,  but  to  be  infected  by  death,  and  to 
droop  and  decline  beside  it.  All  the  living  knaves  and  liars 
in  the  world  were  nothing  to  the  honesty  and  truth  of  one 
dead  friend. 

The  only  thing  the  honest  captain  made  out  clearly,  in 
this  state  of  mind,  besides  the  loss  of  Walter,  was,  that  with 
him  almost  the  whole  world  of  Captain  Cuttle  had  been 
drowned.  If  he  reproached  himself  sometimes,  and  keenly 
too,  for  having  ever  connived  at  Walter's  innocent  deceit, 
he  thought  at  least  as  often  of  the  Mr.  Carker,  whom  no  sea 
could  ever  render  up  ;  and  the  Mr.  Dombey,  whom  he  now 
began  to  perceive  was  as  far  beyond  human  recall  ;  and  the 
"Heart's  Delight,"  with  whom  he  must  never  foregather 
again,  and  the  "  Lovely  Peg,"  that  teak-built  and  trim  bal- 
lad, that  had  gone  ashore  upon  a  rock,  and  split  into  mere 
planks  and  beams  of   rhyme.     The   captain  sat  in  the  dark 


472  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

shop  thinking  of  these  things,  to  the  entire  exclusion  of  his 
own  injury  ;  and  looking  with  as  sad  an  eye  upon  the  ground, 
as  if  in  contemplation  of  their  actual  fragments  as  they 
floated  past  him. 

But  the  captain  was  not  unmindful,  for  all  that,  of  such 
decent  and  respectful  observances  in  memory  of  poor  Wal- 
ter as  he  felt  within  his  power.  Rousing  himself,  and  rous- 
ing Rob  the  Grinder,  (who  in  the  unnatural  twilight  was  fast 
asleep),  the  captain  sallied  forth  with  his  attendant  at  his 
heels,  and  the  door-key  in  his  pocket  ;  and  repairing  to  one 
of  those  convenient  slop-selling  establishments,  of  which 
there  is  abundant  choice  at  the  eastern  end  of  London,  pur- 
chased on  the  spot  two  suits  of  mourning — one  for  Rob  the 
Grinder,  which  was  immensely  too  small,  and  one  for  him- 
self, which  was  immensely  too  large.  He  also  provided  Rob 
with  a  species  of  hat,  greatly  to  be  admired  for  its  symmetry 
and  usefulness,  as  well  as  for  a  happy  blending  of  the  mari- 
ner with  the  coal-heaver  ;  which  is  usually  termed  a  sou'- 
wester ;  and  which  was  something  of  a  novelty  in  connection 
with  the  instrument  business,  in  their  several  garments, 
which  the  vender  declared  to  be  such  a  miracle  in  point  of 
fit  as  nothing  but  a  rare  combination  of  fortuitous  circum- 
stances ever  brought  about,  and  the  fashion  of  which  was 
unparalleled  within  the  memory  of  the  oldest  inhabitant,  the 
captain  and  Grinder  immediately  arrayed  themselves  ;  pre- 
senting a  spectacle  fraught  with  wonder  to  all  who  beheld  it. 

In  this  altered  form,  the  captain  received  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  took  aback,  my  lad,  at  present,"  said  the  captain, 
''and  will  only  confirm  that  there  ill  news.  Tell  the  young 
woman  to  break  it  gentle  to  the  young  lady,  and  for  neither 
of  'em  never  to  think  of  me  no  more — 'special,  mind  you, 
that  is — though  I  will  think  of  them,  when  night  comes  on  a 
hurricane,  and  seas  is  mountains  rowling,  for  which  over- 
haul your  Dr.  Watts,  brother,  and  when  found  make  a  note 
on." 

The  captain  reserved,  until  some  fitter  time,  the  consid- 
eration of  Mr.  Toots's  offer  of  friendship,  and  thus  dismissed 
him.  Captain  Cuttle's  spirits  were  so  low,  in  truth,  that  he 
half  determined,  that  day,  to  take  no  further  precautions 
against  surprise  from  Mrs.  MacStinger,  but  to  abandon  him- 
self recklessly  to  chance,  and  be  indifferent  to  what  might 
happen.  As  evening  came  on,  he  fell  into  a  better  frame  of 
mind,  however,  and  spoke  much  of  Walter  to  Rob  the 
Grinder,  whose  attention  and  fidelity  he  likewise  incidentally 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  473 

commended.  Rob  did  not  blush  to  hear  the  captain  earnest 
in  his  praises,  but  sat  staring  at  him,  and  affecting  to  snivel 
with  sympathy,  and  making  a  feint  of  being  virtuous,  and 
treasuring  up  every  word  he  said  (like  a  young  spy  as  he 
was)  with  very  promising  deceit. 

When  Rob  had  turned  in,  and  was  fast  asleep,  the  captain 
trimmed  the  candle,  put  on  his  spectacles — he  had  felt  it 
appropriate  to  take  to  spectacles  on  entering  the  instrument 
trade,  though  his  eyes  were  like  a  hawk's — and  opened  the 
prayer-book  at  the  burial  service.  And  reading  softly  to 
himself,  in  the  little  back  parlor,  and  stopping  now  and  then 
to  wipe  his  eyes,  the  captain,  in  a  true  and  simple  spirit,  com- 
mitted Walter's  body  to  the  deep. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

CONTRASTS. 

Turn  we  our  eyes  upon  two  homes  ;  not  lying  side  by 
side,  but  wide  apart,  though  both  in  easy  range  and  reach  of 
the  great  city  of  London. 

The  first  is  situated  in  the  green  and  wooded  country  near 
Norwood.     It  is  not  a  mansion  ;  it  is  of  no  pretensions  as  to 
size  ;  but  it  is  beautifully  arranged  and  tastefully  kept.     The 
lawn,  the  soft,  smooth  slope,  the  flower-garden,  the    clumps 
of  trees,   where   graceful  forms   of  ash   and  willow  are  not 
wanting,  the  conservatory,   the  rustic  veranda  with   sweet- 
smelling  creeping-plants  entwined  about  the  pillars,  the  sim- 
ple exterior  of  the  house,  the  well-ordered  offices,  though  all 
upon  the  diminutive  scale  proper  to  a  mere  cottage,  bespeak 
an  amount  of  elegant  comfort  within  that  might  serve  for  a 
palace.     This  indication  is  not  without  warrant  ;  for  within 
it  is  a  house  of  refinement  and  luxury.     Rich  colors,  excel- 
lently blended,  meet  the  eye  at  every  turn  ;  in  the   furniture 
— its  proportions   admirably  devised   to  suit  the  shapes  and 
sizes  of  the  small  rooms  ;  on   the  walls  ;  upon  the   floors  ; 
tinging  and  subduing  the   light  that   comes   in  through  the 
odd  glass  doors   and  windows  here  and  there.     There  are  a 
few  choice   prints  and   pictures   too  ;  in    quaint  nooks  and 
recesses  there  is  no  want  of  books  ;  and  there  are  games  of 
skill  and  chance  set  forth    on   tables — fantastic  chess-men, 
dice,  backgammon,  cards,  and  billiards. 

And  yet  amid    this  opulence  of  comfort,   there  is  some- 


474  t)OMBEY   AND    SON. 

thing  in  the  general  air  that  is  not  well.  Is  it  that  the  car- 
pets and  the  cushions  are  too  soft  and  noiseless,  so  that 
those  who  move  or  repose  among  them  seem  to  act  by 
stealth  !  Is  it  that  the  prints  and  pictures  do  not  commem- 
orate great  thoughts  or  deeds,  or  render  nature  in  the  poetry 
of  landscape,  hall,  or  hut,  but  are  of  one  voluptuous  cast — 
mere  shows  of  form  and  color — and  no  more  ?  Is  it  that 
the  books  have  all  their  gold  outside,  and  the  titles  of  the 
greater  part  qualify  them  to  be  companions  of  the  prints  and 
pictures?  Is  it  that  the  completeness  and  beauty  of  the 
place  are  here  and  there  belied  by  an  affectation  of  humility, 
in  some  unimportant  and  inexpensive  regard,  which  is  as 
false  as  the  face  of  the  too  truly  painted  portrait  hanging 
yonder,  or  its  original  at  breakfast  in  his  easy-chair  below  it  ? 
Or  is  it  that,  with  the  daily  breath  of  that  original  and  master 
of  all  here,  there  issues  forth  some  subtle  portion  of  himself, 
which  gives  a  vague  expression  of  himself  to  every  thing 
about  him  ? 

It  is  Mr,  Carker,  the  manager,  who  sits  in  the  easy- chair, 
A  gaudy  parrot  in  a  burnished  cage  upon  the  table  tears  at 
the  wires  with  her  beak,  and  goes  walking,  upside  down,  in 
its  dome-top,  shaking  her  house  and  screeching  ;  but  Mr. 
Carker  is  indifferent  to  the  bird,  and  looks  with  a  musing 
smile  at  a  picture  on  the  opposite  wall. 

"  A  most  extraordinary  accidental  likeness,  certainly," 
says  he. 

Perhaps  it  is  a  Juno  ;  perhaps  a  Potiphar's  wife  ;  perhaps 
some  scornful  nymph — according  as  the  picture  dealers 
found  the  market  when  they  christened  it.  It  is  the  figure 
of  a  woman,  supremely  handsome,  who,  turning  away,  but 
with  her  face  addressed  to  the  spectator,  flashes  her  proud 
glance  upon  him. 

It  is  like  Edith. 

With  a  passing  gesture  of  his  hand  at  the  picture — what  ! 
a  menace  ?  No  ;  yet  something  like  it.  A  wave  as  of  tri- 
umph ?  No  ;  yet  more  like  that.  An  insolent  salute  wafted 
from  his  lips  ?  No  ;  yet  like  that  too — he  resumes  his 
breakfast,  and  calls  to  the  chafing  and  imprisoned  bird,  who 
coming  down  into  a  pendent  gilded  hoop  within  the  cage, 
like  a  great  wedding-ring,  swings  in  it,  for  his  delight. 

The  second  home  is  on  the  other  side  of  London,  near  to 
where  the  busy  great  north  road  of  by- gone  days  is  silent  and 
almost  deserted,  except  by  wayfarers  who  toil  along  on  foot. 
It  is  a  poor,   small   house,  barely  and  sparely  furnished,  but 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  '  475 

'ery  clean  ;  and  there  is  even  an  attempt  to  decorate  it 
?ho\vn  in  the  homely  flowers  trained  about  the  porch  and  in 
the  narrow  garden.  The  neighborhood  in  which  it  stands 
has  as  little  of  the  country  to  recommend  it  as  it  has  of  the 
town.  It  is  neither  of  the  town  nor  country.  The  former, 
like  the  giant  in  his  traveling  boots,  has  made  a  stride  and 
passed  it,  and  has  set  his  brick-and-mortar  heel  a  long  way 
in  advance  ;  but  the  intermediate  space  between  the  giant's 
feet,  as  yet,  is  only  blighted  country,  and  not  town  ;  and, 
here,  among  a  few  tall  chimneys  belching  smoke  all  day  and 
night,  and  among  the  brick-fields  and  the  lanes  where  turf  is 
cut,  and  where  the  fences  tumble  down,  and  where  the 
dusty  nettles  grow,  and  where  a  scrap  or  two  of  hedge  may 
yet  be  seen,  and  where  the  bird-catcher  still  comes  occasion- 
ally, though  he  swears  every  time  to  come  no  more — this 
second  home  is  to  be  found. 

She  who  inhabits  it,  is  she  who  left  the  first  in  her  devo- 
tion to  an  outcast  brother.  She  withdrew  from  that  home 
its  redeeming  spirit,  and  from  its  master's  breast  his  solitary 
angel  ;  but  though  his  liking  for  her  is  gone,  after  this 
ungrateful  slight  as  he  considers  it  ;  and  though  he  aban- 
dons her  altogether  in  return,  an  old  idea  of  her  is  not  quite 
forgotten  even  by  him.  Let  her  flower-garden,  in  which  he 
never  sets  his  foot,  but  which  is  yet  maintained,  among  all 
his  costly  alterations,  as  if  she  had  quitted  it  but  yesterday, 
bear  witness  ! 

Harriet  Carker  has  changed  since  then,  and  on  her  beauty 
there  has  fallen  a  heavier  shade  than  Time  of  his  unassisted 
self  can  cast,  all-potent  as  he  is — the  shadow  of  anxiety  and 
sorrow,  and  the  daily  struggle  of  a  poor  existence.  But  it  is 
beauty  still  ;  and  still  a  gentle,  quiet,  and  retiring  beauty  that 
must  be  sought  out,  for  it  can  not  vaunt  itself  ;  if  it  could,  it 
would  be  what  it  is  no  more. 

Yes.  This  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  neatly  dressed  in 
homely  stuffs,  and  indicating  nothing  but  the  dull  household 
virtues,  that  have  so  little  in  common  vrith  the  received  idea  of 
heroism  and  greatness,  unless,  indeed,  any  ray  of  them  should 
shine  through  the  lives  of  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  when  it 
becomes  a  constellation  and  is  tracked  in  heaven  straight- 
way— this  slight,  small,  patient  figure,  leaning  on  the  man 
still  young,  but  worn  and  gray,  is  she  his  sister,  who,  of  all 
the  world,  went  over  to  him  in  his  shame  and  put  her  hand 
in  his,  and  with  a  sweet  composure  and  determination  led 
him  hopefully  upon  his  barren  way. 


47^  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  It  is  early,  John,"  she  said.  *'  Why  do  you  go  so  early  ?  " 

"  Not  many  minutes  earlier  than  usual,  Harriet.  If  I  have 
the  time  to  spare,  I  should  like,  I  think — it's  a  fancy — to 
walk  once  by  the  house  where  I  took  leave  of  him." 

*'  I  wish  I  had  ever  seen  or  known  him,  John." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,  ray  dear,  remembering  his  fate." 

'*  But  I  could  not  regret  it  more,  though  I  had  known  him. 
Is  not  your  sorrow  mine  ?  And  if  I  had,  perhaps  you  would 
feel  that  I  was  a  better  companion  to  you  in  speaking  about 
him,  than  I  may  seem  now." 

"  My  dearest  sister  !  Is  there  any  thing  within  the  range 
of  rejoicing  or  regret  in  which  I  am  not  sure  of  your  com- 
panionship ? " 

"  I  hope  you  think  not,  John,  for  surely  there  is  nothing  !  " 

*'  How  could  you  be  better  to  me,  or  nearer  to  me  then, 
than  you  are  in  this,  or  any  thing  ?  "  said  her  brother.  "  I 
feel  that  you  did  know  him,  Harriet,  and  that  you 
shared  my  feelings  toward  him." 

She  drew  the  hand  which  had  been  resting  on  his  shoulder 
round  his  neck,  and  answered,  with  some  hesitation: 

"  No,  not  quite." 

"  True,  true  !  "  he  said  ;  "  you  think  I  might  have  done 
him  no  harm  if  I  had  allowed  myself  to  know  him  better  ?  " 

"Think  !     I  know  it." 

"  Designedly,  heaven  knows  I  would  not,"  he  replied, 
shaking  his  head  mournfully  ;  ''  but  his  reputation  was  too 
precious  to  be  periled  by  such  association.  Whether  you 
share  that  knowledge,  or  do  not,  my  dear — " 

"I  do  not,"  she  said,  quietly, 

"  It  is  still  the  truth,  Harriet,  and  my  mind  is  lighter  when 
1  think  of  him  for  that  which  made  it  so  much  heavier  then." 
He  checked  himself  in  his  tone  of  melancholy,  and  smiled 
upon  her  as  he  said  "  Good-by  !  " 

"  Good-by,  dear  John  !  In  the  evening,  at  the  old  time 
and  place,  I  shall  meet  you  as  usual  on  your  way  home. 
Good-by." 

The  cordial  face  she  lifted  up  to  his  to  kiss  him,  was  his 
home,  his  life,  his  universe,  and  yet  it  was  a  portion  of  his 
punishment  and  grief  ;  for  in  the  cloud  he  saw  upon  it — 
though  serene  and  calm  as  any  radiant  cloud  at  sunset — and 
in  the  constancy  and  devotion  of  her  life,  and  in  the  sacri- 
fice she  had  made  of  ease,  enjoyment,  and  hopq,  he  saw  the 
bitter  fruits  of  his  old  crime,  forever  ripe  and  fresh. 

She  stood  at  the  door  looking  after  him,  with  her  hands 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  477 

lOOsely  clasped  in  each  other,  as  he  made  his  way  over  the 
frowzy  and  uneven  patch  of  ground  which  lay  before  their 
house,  which  had  once  (and  not  long  ago)  been  a  pleasant 
meadow,  and  was  now  a  very  waste,  with  a  disorderly  crop 
of  beginnings  of  mean  houses,  rising  out  of  the  rubbish,  as  if 
they  had  been  unskillfully  sown  there.  Whenever  he  looked 
back — as  once  or  twice  he  did — her  cordial  face  shone  like  a 
light  upon  his  heart  ;  but  when  he  plodded  on  his  way,  and 
saw  her  not,  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes  as  she  stood  watching 
him. 

Her  pensive  form  was  not  long  idle  at  the  door.  There 
was  daily  duty  to  discharge,  and  daily  work  to  do — for  such 
commonplace  spirits  that  are  not  heroic  often  work  hard  with 
their  hands — and  Harriet  was  soon  busy  with  her  household 
tasks.  These  discharged,  and  the  poor  house  made  quite 
neat  and  orderly,  she  counted  her  little  stock  of  money  with 
an  anxious  face,  and  went  out  thoughtfully  to  buy  some  nec- 
essaries for  their  table,  planning  and  contriving  as  she  went, 
hov/  to  save.  So  sordid  are  the  lives  of  such  low  natures, 
who  are  not  only  not  heroic  to  their  valets  and  waiting-women 
but  have  neither  valets  nor  waiting-women  to  be  heroic  to 
withal  ! 

While  she  was  absent,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house, 
there  approached  it,  by  a  different  way  from  that  the  brother 
had  taken,  a  gentleman,  a  very  little  past  his  prime  of  life 
perhaps,  but  of  a  healthy  florid  hue,  an  upright  pres- 
ence, and  a  bright  clear  aspect,  that  was  gracious  and 
good-humored.  His  eyebrows  were  still  black,  and  so 
was  much  of  his  hair  ;  the  sprinkling  of  gray  observable 
among  the  latter  graced  the  former  very  much,  and 
showed  his  broad  frank  brow  and  honest  eyes  to  great 
advantage. 

After  knocking  once  at  the  door,  and  obtaining  no 
response,  this  gentleman  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  little 
porch  to  wait.  A  certain  skillful  action  of  his  fingers  as  he 
hummed  some  bars,  and  beat  time  on  the  seat  beside  him, 
seemed  to  denote  the  musician  ;  and  the  extraordinary  satis- 
faction he  derived  from  humming  something  very  slow  and 
long,  which  had  no  recognizable  tune,  seemed  to  denote 
that  he  was  a  scientific  one. 

The  gentleman  was  still  twirling  a  theme,  which  seemed 
to  go  round  and  round  and  round,  and  in  and  in  and  in, 
and  to  involve  itself  like  a  corkscrew  twirled  upon  a  table, 
without   getting   any  nearer    to   any    thing,    when    Harriet 


47^  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

appeared  returning.  He  rose  up  as  she  advanced,  and  stood 
with  his  head  uncovered. 

"  You  are  come  again,  sir?"  she  said,  faltering. 

"  I  take  that  Uberty,"  he  answered.  "  May  I  ask  for  five 
minutes  of  your  leisure  ?  " 

After  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  opened  the  door,  and 
gave  him  admission  to  the  little  parlor.  The  gentleman  sat 
down  there,  drew  his  chair  to  the  table  over  against  her,  and 
said,  in  a  voice  that  perfectly  corresponded  to  his  appear- 
ance, and  with  a  simplicity  that  was  very  engaging  : 

*'  Miss  Harriet,  you  can  not  be  proud.  You  signified  to 
me,  when  1  called  t'other  morning,  that  you  were.  Pardon 
me  if  I  say  that  I  looked  into  your  face  while  you  spoke,  and 
that  it  contradicted  you.  I  look  into  it  again,"  he  added, 
laying  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm  for  an  instant,  "  and  it 
contradicts  you  more  and  more." 

She  was  somewhat  confused  and  agitated,  and  could  make 
no  ready  answer. 

"  It  is  the  mirror  of  truth,"  said  her  visitor,  ^'  and  gentle- 
ness.    Excuse  my  trusting  to  it,  and  returning." 

His  manner  of  saying  these  words,  divested  them  entirely 
of  the  character  of  compliments.  It  was  so  plain,  grave, 
unaffected  and  sincere,  that  she  bent  her  head  as  if  at  once 
to  thank  him,  and  acknowledge  his  sincerity. 

"  The  disparity  between  our  ages,"  said  the  gentleman, 
"and  the  plainness  of  my  purpose,  empower  me,  I  am  glad 
to  think,  to  speak  my  mind.  That  is  my  mind  ;  and  so  you 
see  me  for  the  second  time." 

"  There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  sir,"  she  returned,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  "  or  what  may  be  supposed  to  be  pride, 
which  is  mere  duty.     I  hope  I  cherish  no  other." 

"  For  yourself,"  he  said. 

"For  myself." 

''But — pardon  me — "  suggested  the  gentleman.  "For 
your  brother  John  ? " 

"  Proud  of  his  love,  I  am,"  said  Harriet,  looking  full  upon 
her  visitor,  and  changing  her  manner  on  the  instant — not 
that  it  was  less  composed  and  quiet,  but  that  there  was  a 
deep  impassioned  earnestness  in  it  that  made  the  very  trem- 
ble in  her  voice  a  part  of  her  firmness,  "and  proud  of  him. 
Sir,  you  who  strangely  know  the  story  of  his  life,  and  repeated 
it  to  me  when  you  were  here  last — " 

''  Merely  to  make  my  way  into  your  confidence,"  inter- 
posed the  gentleman,     "  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  suppose— '" 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  479 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "you  revived  it,  in  my  hearing, 
with  a  kind  and  good  purpose.      I  am  quite  sure  of  it." 

'*  I  thank  vou,"  returned  her  visitor,  pressing  her  hand 
hastily.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  You  do  me  justice, 
I  assure  you.  You  were  going  to  say  that  I,  who  know  the 
story  of  John  Carker's  life — " 

"  iMay  think  it  pride  in  me,"  she  continued,  "when  I  say 
that  I  am  proud  of  him  !  I  am.  You  know  the  time  was 
when  I  was  not — when  I  could  not  be — but  that  is  past. 
The  humility  of  many  years,  the  uncomplaining  expiation, 
the  true  repentance,  the  affection,  which  he  thinks  has  cost 
me  dear,  though  heaven  knows  I  am  happy,  but  for  his  sor- 
row !— oh,  sir,  after  what  I  have  seen,  let  me  conjure  you,  if 
you  are  in  any  place  of  power,  and  are  ever  wronged,  never 
for  any  wrong  inflict  a  punishment  that  can  not  be  recalled; 
while  there  is  a  God  above  us  to  work  changes  in  the  hearts 
He  made." 

"Your  brother  is  an  altered  man,"  returned  the  gentle- 
man, compassionately.     "  I  assure  you  I  don't  doubt  it." 

"  He  was  an  altered  man  when  he  did  wrong,"  said  Har- 
riet. "  He  is  an  altered  man  again,  and  is  his  true  self  now, 
believe  me,  sir." 

"  But  we  go  on,"  said  her  visitor,  rubbing  his  forehead,  in 
an  absent  manner,  with  his  hand,  and  then  drumming 
thoughtfully  on  the  table,  "we  go  on  in  our  clock-work  rou- 
tine from  day  to  day,  and  can't  make  out,  or  follow  these 
changes.  They— they're  a  metaphysical  sort  of  thing.  We 
—we  haven't  'leisure  for  it.  We— we  haven't  courage. 
They're  not  taught  at  schools  or  colleges,  and  we  don't  know 
how  to  set  about  it.  In  short,  we  are  so  d—  d  business-like," 
said  the  gentleman,  walking  to  the  window  and  back,  and 
sitting  down  again,  in  a  state  of  extreme  dissatisfaction  and 
vexation. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing  his  forehead 
again,  and  drumming  on  the  table  as  before,  "  I  have  good 
reason  to  believe  that  a  jog-trot  life,  the  same  from  day  to 
day,  would  reconcile  one  to  any  thing.  One  don't  see  any 
thing,  one  don't  hear  any  thing,  one  don't  know  any  thing  ; 
that's  the  fact.  We  go  on  taking  every  thing  for  granted, 
and  so  we  go  on,  until  whatever  we  do,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 
ferent, we  do  from  habit.  Habit  is  all  I  shall  have  to  report, 
when  I  am  called  upon  to  plead  to  my  conscience,  on  my 
death-bed.  '  Habit,'  says  I  ; '  I  was  deaf,  dumb,  blind,  and 
paralytic  to  a  million  things,  from  habit.'     '  Very  business- 


48o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

like,  indeed,  Mr.  What's-your-name,'  says  conscience,  'but  il 
won't  do  here  !' " 

The  gentleman  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  again 
and  back  ;  seriously  uneasy,  though  giving  his  uneasiness 
this  peculiar  expression. 

"  iMiss  Harriet,"  he  said,  resuming  his  chair,  "  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  serve  you.  Look  at  me  ;  I  ought  to  look  hon- 
est, for  I  know  I  am  so,  at  present.     Do  I  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile. 

"  I  believe  every  word  you  have  said,"  he  returned.  "  I 
am  full  of  self-reproach  that  I  might  have  known  this  and 
seen  this,  and  known  you  and  seen  you,  any  time  these  dozen 
years,  and  that  I  never  have.  I  hardly  know  how  I  ever  got 
here — creature  that  I  am,,  not  only  of  my  own  habit,  but  of 
other  people's  !  But  having  done  so,  let  me  do  something. 
I  ask  it  in  all  honor  and  respect.  You  inspire  me  with  both 
in  the  highest  degree.     Let  me  do  something." 

"  We  are  contented,  sir." 

"  No,  no,  not  quite,"  returned  the  gentleman.  "  I  think 
not  quite.  There  are  some  little  comforts  that  might  smooth 
your  life  and  his.  And  his  !  "  he  repeated,  fancying  that  he 
had  made  some  impression  on  her.  "  I  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  thinking  that  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  be  done 
for  him  ;  that  it  was  all  settled  and  over  ;  in  short,  of  not 
thinking  at  all  about  it.  I  am  different  now.  Let  me  do 
something  for  him.  You  too,"  said  the  visitor,  with  careful 
delicacy,  "  have  need  to  watch  your  health  closely,  for  his 
sake,  and  I  fear  it  fails." 

"  Whoever  you  may  be,  sir,"  answered  Harriet,  raising  her 
eyes  to  his  face,  ''  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you.  I  feel  cer- 
tain that  in  all  you  say  you  have  no  object  in  the  world  but 
kindness  to  us.  But  years  have  passed  since  we  began  this 
life  ;  and  to  take  from  my  brother  any  part  of  what  has  so 
endeared  him  to  me,  and  so  proved  his  better  resolution — 
any  fragment  of  the  merit  of  his  unassisted,  obscure,  and 
forgotten  reparation — would  be  to  diminish  the  comfort  it 
will  be  to  him  and  me,  when  that  time  comes  to  each  of  us 
of  which  you  spoke  just  now.  I  thank  you  better  with  these 
tears  than  any  words.     Believe  it,  pray." 

The  gentleman  was  moved,  and  put  the  hand  she  held  out 
to  his  Hps,  much  as  a  tender  father  might  kiss  the  hand  of  a 
dutiful  child.     But  more  reverently. 

"  If  the  day  should  ever  come',"  said  Harriet,  "  when  he  is 
restored,  in  part,  to  the  position  he  lost — " 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  481 

"  Restored  !  "  cried  the  gentleman,  quickly.  *'  How  can 
that  be  hoped  for  ?  In  whose  hands  does  the  power  of  any 
restoration  lie  ?  It  is  no  mistake  of  mine,  surely,  to  suppose 
that  his  having  gained  the  priceless  blessing  of  his  life,  is 
one  cause  of  the  animosity  shown  to  him  by  his  brother." 

"  You  touch  upon  a  subject  that  is  never  breathed  between 
us  ;  not  even  between  us,"  said  Harriet. 

''  I  beg  your  forgiveness,"  said  the  visitor.  *'  I  should  have 
known  it.  I  entreat  you  to  forget  that  I  have  done  so,  inad- 
vertently. And  now,  as  I  dare  urge  no  more^as  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  have  a  right  to  do  so — though  heaven  knows, 
even  that  doubt  may  be  habit,"  said  the  gentleman,  rubbing 
his  head  as  despondently  as  before,  ''  let  me  ;  though  a 
stranger,  yet  no  stranger  ;  ask  two  favors." 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"The  first,  that  if  you  should  see  cause  to  change  your 
resolution,  you  will  suffer  me  to  be  as  your  right  hand.  My 
name  shall  then  be  at  your  service  ;  it  is  useless  now,  and 
always  insignificant." 

"  Our  choice  of  friends,"  she  answered,  smiling  faintly, 
"  is  not  so  great,  that  I  need  any  time  for  consideration.  I 
can  promise  that." 

"  The  second,  that  you  will  allow  me  sometimes,  say  every 
Monday  morning  at  nine  o'clock — habit  again — I  must  be 
business-like,"  said  the  gentleman,  with  a  whimsical  inclina- 
tion to  quarrel  with  himself  on  that  head,  "  in  walking  past, 
to  see  you  at  the  door  or  window.  I  don't  ask  to  come  in, 
as  your  brother  will  be  gone  out  at  that  hour.  I  don't  ask 
to  speak  to  you.  I  merely  ask  to  see,  for  the  satisfaction  of 
my  own  mind,  that  you  are  well,  and  without  intrusion  to 
remind  you,  by  the  sight  of  me,  that  you  have  a  friend — an 
elderly  friend,  gray-haired  already,  and  fast  growing  grayer 
— whom  you  may  ever  command." 

The  cordial  face  looked  up  in  his  ;  confided  in  it  ;  and 
promised. 

"  I  understand,  as  before,"  said  the  gentleman,  rising, 
"  that  you  purpose  not  to  mention  my  visit  to  John  Carker, 
lest  he  should  be  at  all  distressed  by  my  acquaintance  with 
his  history.  I  am  glad  of  it,  for  it  is  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and — habit  again  !  "  said  the  gentleman, 
checking  himself  impatiently,  "  as  if  there  were  no  better 
course  than  the  ordinary  course  !  " 

With  that  he  turned  to  go,  and  walking,  bareheaded,  to 
the  outside  of  the  little  porch,  took  leave  of  her  with  such  a 


4'62  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

happy  mixture  of  unconstrained  respect  and  unaffected 
interest  as  no  breeding  could  have  taught,  no  truth  mistrusted, 
and  nothing  but  a  pure  and  single  heart  expressed. 

Many  half-forgotten  emotions  were  awakened  in  the  sister's 
mind  by  this  visit.  It  was  so  very  long  since  any  other  vis- 
itor had  crossed  their  threshold  ;  it  was  so  very  long  since 
any  voice  of  sympa,thy  had  made  sad  music  in  her  ears  ; 
that  the  stranger's  figure  remained  present  to  her,  hours 
afterward,  when  she  sat  at  the  window  plying  her  needle, 
and  his  words  seemed  newly  spoken,  again  and  again.  He 
had  touched  the  spring  that  opened  her  whole  life,  and  if. 
she  lost  him  for  a  short  space,  it  was  only  among  the  many 
shapes  of  the  one  great  recollection  of  which  that  life  was 
made. 

Musing  and  working  by  turns  ;  now  constraining  herself 
to  be  steady  at  her  needle  for  a  long  time  together,  and  now 
letting  her  work  fall  unregarded  on  her  lap,  and  straying 
wheresoever  her  busier  thoughts  led,  Harriet  Carker  found 
the  hours  glide  by  her  and  the  day  steal  on.  The  morning, 
which  had  been  bright  and  clear,  gradually  became  overcast  ; 
a  sharp  wind  set  in  ;  the  rain  fell  heavily  ;  and  a  dark  mist 
drooping  over  the  distant  town,  hid  it  from  the  view. 

She  often  looked  with  compassion,  at  such  a  time,  upon 
the  stragglers  who  came  wandering  into  London  by  th^  great 
highway  hard  by,  and  who,  footsore  and  weary,  and  gazing 
fearfully  at  the  huge  town  before  them,  as  if  foreboding  that 
their  misery  there  would  be  but  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the 
sea,  or  as  a  grain  of  sea-sand  on  the  shore,  went  shrinking 
on,  cowering  before  the  angry  weather,  and  looking  as  if  the 
very  elements  rejected  them.  Day  after  day  such  travelers 
crept  past,  but  always,  as  she  thought,  in  one  direction — 
always  toward  the  town.  Swallowed  up  in  one  phase  or 
other  of  its  immensity,  toward  which  they  seemed  impelled 
by  a  desperate  fascination,  they  never  returned.  Food  for 
the  hospitals,  the  church-ya^rds,  the  prisons,  the  river,  fever, 
madness,  vice,  and  death — they  passed  on  to  the  monster, 
roaring  in  the  distance,  and  were  lost. 

The  chill  wind  was  howling,  and  the  rain  was  falling,  and 
the  day  was  darkening  moodily,  when  Harriet,  raising  her 
eyes  from  the  work  on  which  she  had  long  since  been  engaged 
with    unremitting    constancy,  saw  one    of    these  travelers. 

A  woman.  A  solitary  woman  of  some  thirty  years  of  age  ; 
tall  ;  well-formed  ;  handsome  ;  miserably  dressed  ;  the  soil 
of  many  country  roads  in  varied  weather — dust  chalk,  clay, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  483 

gravel — clotted  on  her  gray  cloak  by  the  streaming  wet  ;  no 
bonnet  on  her  head,  nothing  to  defend  her  rich  black  hair 
from  the  rain  but  a  torn  handkerchief  ;  with  the  fluttering 
ends  of  which,  and  with  her  hair,  the  wind  blinded  her  so 
that  she  often  stopped  to  push  them  back,  and  look  upon 
the  way  she  was  going. 

She  was  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  Harriet  observed 
her.  As  her  hands,  parting  on  her  sun-burned  forehead, 
swept  across  her  face,  and  threw  aside  the  hindrances  that 
encroached  upon  it,  there  was  a  reckless  and  regardless 
beauty  in  it  ;  a  dauntless  and  depraved  indifference  to  more 
than  weather  ;  a  carelessness  of  what  was  cast  upon  her  bare 
head  from  heaven  or  earth  ;  that,  coupled  with  her  misery 
and  loneliness,  touched  the  heart  of  her  fellow-woman.  She 
thought  of  all  that  was  perverted  and  debased  within  her, 
no  less  than  without  ;  of  modest  graces  of  the  mind,  hard- 
ened and  steeled,  like  these  attractions  of  the  person  ;  of 
the  many  gifts  of  the  Creator  flung  to  the  winds  like  the 
wild  hair  ;  of  all  the  beautiful  ruin  upon  which  the  storm 
was  beating  and  the  night  was  coming. 

Thinking  of  this,  she  did  not  turn  away  with  a  delicate 
indignation — too  many  of  her  own  compassionate  and  tender 
sex  too  often  do — but  pitied  her. 

Her  fallen  sister  came  on,  looking  far  before  her,  trying 
with  her  eager  eyes  to  pierce  the  mist  in  which  the  city  was 
enshrouded,  and  glancing  now  and  then  from  side  to  side, 
with  the  bewildered  and  uncertain  aspect  of  a  stranger. 
Though  her  tread  was  bold  and  courageous,  she  was  fatigued, 
and  after  a  moment  of  irresolution,  sat  down  upon  a  heap 
of  stones  ;  seeking  no  shelter  from  the  rain,  but  letting  it 
rain  on  her  as  it  would. 

She  was  now  opposite  the  house  ;  raising  her  head  after 
resting  it  for  a  moment  on  both  hands,  her  eyes  met  those 
of  Harriet. 

In  a  moment,  Harriet  was  at  the  door  ;  and  the  other, 
rising  from  her  seat  at  her  beck,  came  slowly,  and  with  no 
conciliatory  look,  toward  her. 

"  Why  do  you  rest  in  the  rain  ?  "  said  Harriet,  gently. 

"  Because  I  have  no  other  resting-place,"  was  the 
reply. 

"But  there  are  many  places  of  shelter  near  here.  This," 
referring  to  the  little  porch,  "  is  bette-r  than  where  you  were. 
You  are  very  welcome  to  rest  here." 

The  wanderer  looked  at  her  in  doubt  and  surprise,  but 


484  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

without  any  expression  of  thankfulness  ;  and  sitting  down, 
and  taking  off  one  of  her  worn  shoes  to  beat  out  the  frag- 
ments of  stone  and  dust  that  were  inside,  showed  that  her 
foot  was  cut  and  bleeding. 

Harriet,  uttering  an  expression  of  pity,  the  traveler  looked 
up  with   a  contemptuous  and  incredulous  smile. 

"  Why,  what's  a  torn  foot  to  such  as  me  ? "  she  said. 
*'  And  what's  a  torn  foot  in  such  as  me,  to  such  as  you  ?  " 

"Come  in  and  wash  it,"  answered  Harriet,  mildly,  "and 
let  me  give  you  something  to  bind  it  up." 

The  woman  caught  her  arm,  and  drawing  it  before 
her  own  eyes,  hid  them  against  it,  and  wept.  Not  like  a 
woman,  but  like  a  stern  man  surprised  into  that  weakness ; 
with  a  violent  heaving  of  her  breast,  and  a  struggle  for 
recovery,  that  showed  how  unusual  the  emotion  was  with  her. 

She  submitted  to  be  led  into  the  house,  and,  evidently 
more  in  gratitude  than  in  any  care  for  herself,  washed  and 
bound  the  injured  place.  Harriet  then  put  before  her  frag- 
ments of  her  own  frugal  dinner,  and  when  she  had  eaten  of 
them,  though  sparingly,  besought  her,  before  resuming  her 
road  (which  she  showed  her  anxiety  to  do),  to  dry  her 
clothes  before  the  fire.  Again,  more  in  gratitude  than  with 
any  evidence  of  concern  in  her  own  behalf,  she  sat  down  in 
front  of  it,  and  unbinding  the  handkerchief  about  her  head, 
and  letting  her  thick  wet  hair  fall  down  below  her  waist,  sat 
drying  it  with  the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  looking  at  the 
blaze. 

"I  dare  say  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head 
suddenly,  "that  I  used  to  be  handsome  once.  I  believe  I 
was — I  know  I  was.     Look  here  !  " 

She  held  up  her  hair  roughly  with  both  hands  ;  seizing  it 
as  if  she  would  have  torn  it  out  ;  then  threw  it  down  again, 
and  flung  it  back  as  though  it  were  a  heap  of  serpents. 

"Are  you  a  stranger  in  this  place  ?"  asked  Harriet. 

"  A  stranger  !  "  she  returned,  stopping  between  each  short 
reply,  and  looking  at  the  fire.  "  Yes.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years 
a  stranger.  I  have  had  no  almanac  where  I  have  been. 
Ten  or  a  dozen  years.  I  don't  know  this  part.  It's  much 
altered  since  I  went  away." 

"  Have  you  been  far  ?" 

"  Very  far.  Months  upon  months  over  the  sea,  and  far 
away  even  then.  I  have  been  where  convicts  go,"  she  added, 
looking  full  upon  her  entertainer.  "  I  have  been  one 
myself,  * 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  485 

"  Heaven  help  you  and  forgive  you  !  "  was  the  gentle 
answer. 

''  Ah  !  Heaven  help  me  and  forgive  me  !  "  she  returned, 
nodding  her  head  at  the  fire.  "  If  man  would  help  some  of 
us  a  little  more,  God  would  forgive  us  all  the  sooner,  per- 
haps." 

But  she  was  softened  by  the  earnest  manner,  and  the  cor- 
dial face  so  full  of  mildness  and  so  free  from  judgment,  of 
her,  and  said,  less  hardily  : 

'*  We  may  be  about  the  same  age,  you  and  me.  If  I  am 
older,  it  is  not  above  a  year  or  two.     Oh  think  of  that  !  " 

She  opened  her  arms,  as  though  the  exhibition  of  her  out- 
ward form  would  show  the  moral  wretch  she  was  ;  and  let- 
ting them  drop  at  her  sides,  hung  down  her  head.  ^ 

"  There  is  nothing  we  may  not  hope  to  repair  ;  it  is  never 
too  late  to  amend,"  said  Harriet.     "  You  are  penitent — " 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  not  !  I  can't  be.  I  am  no 
such  thing.  Why  should  /  be  penitent,  and  all  the  world  go 
free  ?  They  talk  to  me  of  my  penitence.  Who's  penitent 
for  the  wrongs  that  have  been  done  to  me  ?  " 

She  rose  up,  bound  her  handkerchief  about  her  head,  and 
turned  to  move  away. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Yonder,"  she  answered,  pointing  with  her  hand.  **  To 
London." 

"  Have  you  any  home  to  go  to  ?  " 

"  1  think  I  have  a  mother.  She's  as  much  a  mother  as 
her  dwelling  is  a  home,"  she  answered,  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

*'  Take  this,"  cried  Harriet,  putting  money  in  her  hand. 
"  Try  to  do  well.  It  is  very  little,  but  for  one  day  it  may 
keep  you  from  harm." 

"  Are  you  married  ?  "  said  the  other,  faintly,  as  she  took  it. 

**  No.  I  live  here  with  my  brother.  We  have  not  much 
to  spare,  or  I  would  give  you  more." 

''  Will  you  let  me  kiss  you  ?  " 

Seeing  no  scorn  or  repugnance  in  her  face,  the  object  of 
her  charity  bent  over  her  as  she  asked  the  question,  and 
pressed  her  lips  against  her  cheek.  Once  more  she  caught 
her  arm,  and  covered  her  eyes  with  it  ;  and  then  v/as  gone. 
Gone  into  the  deepening  night,  and  hov/ling  vrind,  and 
pelting  rain  ;  urging  her  way  on  toward  the  mist-enshrouded 
city  v/here  the  blurred  lights  gleamed  ;  and  with  her  black 
hair  and  disordered  head-gear  fluttering  round  her  reckless 
face. 


486  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

ANOTHER  MOTHER    AND  DAUGHTER. 

In  an  ugly  and  dark  room,  an  old  woman,  ugly  and  dark 
too,  sat  listening  to  the  wind  and  rain,  and  crouching  over  a 
meager  fire.  More  constant  to  the  last-named  occupation 
than  the  first,  she  never  changed  her  attitude,  unless,  when 
any  stray  drops  of  rain  fell  hissing  on  the  smoldering 
embers,  to  raise  her  head  with  an  awakened  attention  to  the 
whistling  and  pattering  outside,  and  gradually  to  let  it  fall 
again  lower  and  lower  as  she  sunk  into  a  brooding  state  of 
thought,  in  which  the  noises  of  the  night  were  as  indistinctly 
regarded  as  is  the  monotonous  rolling  of  a  sea  by  one  who 
sits  in  contemplation  on  its  shore. 

There  was  no  light  in  the  room  save  that  which  the  fire 
afforded.  Glaring  sullenly  from  time  to  time  like  the  eye 
of  a  fierce  beast  half  asleep,  it  revealed  no  objects  that 
needed  to  be  jealous  of  a  better  display.  A  heap  of  rags, 
a  heap  of  bones,  a  wretched  bed,  two  or  three  mutilated 
chairs  or  stools,  the  black  walls  and  blacker  ceiling,  were 
all  its  winking  brightness  shone  upon.  As  the  old  woman, 
with  a  gigantic  and  distorted  image  of  herself  thrown  half 
upon  the  wall  behind  her,  half  upon  the  roof  above,  sat 
bending  over  the  few  loose  bricks  within  which  it  was  pent, 
on  the  damp  hearth  of  the  chimney — for  there  was  no  stove 
— she  looked  as  if  she  were  watching  at  some  witch's  altar 
for  a  favorable  token  ;  and  but  that  the  movement  of  her 
chattering  jaws  and  trembling  chin  was  too  frequent  and  too 
fast  for  the  slow  flickering  of  the  fire,  it  would  have  seemed 
an  illusion  wrought  by  the  light,  as  it  came  and  went,  upon 
a  face  as  motionless  as  the  form  to  which  it  belonged. 

If  Florence  could  have  stood  within  the  room  and  looked 
upon  the  original  of  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the  wall  and 
roof,  as  it  cowered  thus  over  the  fire,  a  glance  might  have 
sufficed  to  recall  the  figure  of  good  Mrs.  Brown  ;  notwith- 
standing that  her  childish  recollection  of  that  terrible  old 
woman  was  as  grotesque  and  exaggerated  a  presentment  of 
the  truth,  perhaps,  as  the  shadow  on  the  wall.  But  Florence 
was  not  there  to  look  on  ;  and  good  Mrs.  Brown  remained 
unrecognized,  and  sat  staring  at  her  fire,  unobserved. 

Attracted  by  a  louder  sputtering  than  usual,  as  the  rain 
came  hissing  down   the   chimney  in  a  little   stream,  the  old 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  4^7 

woman  raised  her  head,  impatiently,  to  listen  afresh.  And 
this  time  she  did  not  drop  it  again  ;  for  there  was  a  hand 
upon  the  door,  and  a  footstep  in  the  room. 

^'  Who's  that  ?  "  she  said,  looking  over  her  shoulder. 
"  One  who  brings  you  news,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  woman's 
voice. 

"News?     Where  from?" 
''  From  abroad." 

*'  From  beyond  seas  ?  "  cried  the  old  woman,  starting  up. 
''Ay,  from  beyond  seas." 

The  old  woman  raked  the  fire  together  hurriedly,  and 
going  close  to  her  visitor  who  had  entered,  and  shut  the 
door,  and  who  now  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  put  her 
hand  upon  the  drenched  cloak,  and  turned  the  unresisting 
figure,  so  as  to  have  it  in  the  full  light  of  the  fire.  She  did 
not  find  what  she  had  expected,  whatever  that  might  be  ; 
for  she  let  the  cloak  go  again,  and  uttered  a  querulous  cry 
of  disappointment  and  misery. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  her  visitor. 
"  Oho  !    Oho  !  "  cried   the   old   woman,  turning   her  face 
upward,  with  a  terrible  howl. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  her  visitor  again. 
*'  It's  not  my  gal  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  tossing  up  her 
arms,  and   clasping   her  hands  above  her  head.     ''  Where's 
my    Alice  ?     Where's   my    handsome    daughter  ?     They've 
been  the  death  of  her  !  " 

"  They've  not  been  the  death  of  her  yet,  if  your  name's 
Marwood,"  said  the  visitor. 

''Have  you  seen  my  gal,  then  ?"  cried  the  old  woman. 
"  Has  she  wrote  to  me  ?  " 

"  She  said  you  couldn't  read,"  returned  the   other. 
"  No  more   I   can  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman,  wringing 
her  hands. 

"  Have  you  no  light  here  ?  "  said  the  other,  looking  round 
the  room. 

The  old  woman,  mumbling  and  shaking  her  head,  and 
muttering  to  herself  about  her  handsome  daughter,  brought 
a  candle  from  a  cupboard  in  the  corner,  and  thrusting  it 
into  the  fire  with  a  trembling  hand,  lighted  it  with  some  diffi- 
culty and  set  it  on  the  table.  Its  dirty  wick  burned  dimly 
at  first,  being  choked  in  its  own  grease  ;  and  when  the 
bleared  eyes  and  failing  sight  of  the  old  woman  could  dis- 
tinguish any  thing  by  its  light,  her  visitor  was  sitting  with 
her  arms  folded,  her  eyes  turned  downward,  and  a  handker- 


4S8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

chief  she  had  worn  upon  her  head  lying  on  the  table  by  her 
side. 

"  She  sent  to  me  by  word  of  mouth  then,  my  gal,  Alice  ?  " 
mumbled  the  old  woman,  after  waiting  for  some  moments. 
''  What  did  she  say  ?  " 

^'  Look  !  "  returned  the  visitor. 

The  old  woman  repeated  the  word   in  a  scared,  uncertain 
way  ;  and  shading  her  eyes,  looked  at  the  speaker,  round  the 
oom,  and  at  the  speaker  once  again. 

Alice  said,  ''  Look  again,  mother  !  "  and  the  speaker  fixed 
'ler  eyes  upon  her. 

Again  the  old  woman  looked  round  the  room,  and  at  her 
visitor,  and  round  the  room  once  more.  Hastily  seizing  the 
candle,  and  rising  from  her  seat,  she  held  it  to  the  visitor's 
tace,  uttered  a  loud  cry,  set  down  the  light,  and  fell  upon 
her  neck  ! 

*'  It's  my  gal !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my  handsome  daugh- 
ter, living  and  come  back  !  "  screamed  the  old  woman,  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro  upon  the  breast  that  coldly  suffered 
her  embrace.  *'  It's  my  gal  !  It's  my  Alice  !  It's  my 
handsome  daughter,  living  and  come  back  !  "  she  screamed 
again,  dropping  on  the  floor  before  her,  clasping  her  knees, 
laying  her  head  against  them,  and  still  rocking  herself  to 
and  fro  with  every  frantic  demonstration  of  which  her 
vitality  was  capable. 

"  Yes,  mother,"  returned  Alice,  stooping  forward  for  a 
moment  and  kissing  her,  but  endeavoring,  even  in  the  act, 
to  disengage  herself  from  her  embrace.  "  I  am  here  at  last. 
Let  go,  mother  ;  let  go.  Get  up,  and  sit  in  your  chair. 
What  good  does  this  do  ?  " 

"  She's  come  back  harder  than  she  went  !  "  cried  the 
mother,  looking  up  in  her  face,  and  still  holding  to  her  knees. 
*'  She  don't  care  for  me  !  after  all  these  years,  and  all  the 
wretched  life  I've  led  ! " 

"Why,  mother  !  "  said  Alice,  shaking  her  ragged  skirts  to 
detach  the  old  woman  from  them  ;  "  there  are  two  sides  to 
that.  There  have  been  years  for  me  as  well  as  you,  and 
there  has  been  wretchedness  for  me  as  well  as  you.  Get  up, 
get  up  !  " 

Her  mother  rose,  and  cried,  and  wrung  her  hands,  and 
stood  at  a  little  distance  gazing  on  her.  Then  she  took  the 
candle  again,  and  going  round  her,  surveyed  her  from  head 
to  foot,  making  a  low  moaning  all  the  time.  Then  she  put 
the  candle  down,  resumed  her  chair,  and  beating  her  hands 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  489 

together  to  a  kind  of  weary  tune,  and  rolling  herself  from 
side  to  side,  continued  moaning  and  wailing  to  herself. 

Alice  got  up,  took  off  her  wet  cloak,  and  laid  it  aside. 
That  done,  she  sat  down  as  before,  and  with  her  arms  folded, 
and  her  eyes  gazing  at  the  fire,  remained  silently  listening 
with  a  contemptuous  face  to  her  old  mother's  inarticulate 
complainings. 

"  bid  you  expect  to  see  me  return  as  youthful  as  I  went 
away,  mother?"  she  said  at  length,  turning  her  eyes  upon 
the  old  woman.  "  Did  you  think  a  foreign  life  like  mine 
was  good  for  good  looks  ?  One  would  believe  so,  to  hear 
you  !  " 

"  It  ain't  that  !  "  cried  the  mother.     *'  She  knows  it !  " 

"What  is  it,  then?"  returned  the  daughter.  "It  had 
best  be  something  that  don't  last,  mother,  or  my  way  out  is 
easier  than  my  way  in." 

"  Hear  that !  "  exclaimed  the  mother.  "  After  all  these 
years  she  threatens  to  desert  me  in  the  moment  of  her  com- 
ing back  again  !  " 

"  I  tell  you,  mother,  for  the  second  time,  there  have  been 
years  for  me  as  well  as  you,"  said  Alice.  "  Come  back 
harder?  Of  course  I  have  come  back  harder.  What  else 
did  you  expect  ?  " 

"  Harder  to  me  !  To  her  own  dear  mother  !  "  cried  the 
old  woman. 

"  I  don't  know  who  began  to  harden  me,  if  my  own  dear 
mother  didn't,"  she  returned,  sitting  with  her  folded  arms, 
and  knitted  brows,  and  compressed  lips,  as  if  she  were  bent 
on  excluding,  by  force,  every  softer  feeling  from  her  breast. 
"  Listen,  mother,  to  a  word  or  two.  If  we  understand  each 
other  nov/,  we  shall  not  fall  out  any  more,  perhaps.  I  went 
away  a  girl,  and  have  come  back  a  woman.  I  went  away 
undutiful  enough,  and  have  come  back  no  better,  you  may 
swear.     But  have  you  been  very  dutiful  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  !  "  cried  the  old  woman.  "  To  my  own  gal  I  A  mother 
dutiful  to  her  own  child  I  " 

"  It  sounds  unnatural,  don't  it  ?  "  returned  the  daughter, 
looking  coldly  on  her  with  her  stern,  regardless,  hardy,  beau- 
tiful face  ;  "  but  I  have  thought  of  it  sometimes,  in  the 
course  of  my  lone  years,  till  I  have  got  used  to  it.  I  have 
heard  some  talk  about  duty  first  and  last ;  but  it  has  always 
been  of  my  duty  to  other  people.  I  have  wondered  now 
and  then — to  pass  away  the  time — whether  no  one  ever  owed 
any  duty  to  me." 


490  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Her  m  )ther  sat  mowing,  and  mumbling,  and  shaking  her 
head,  but  whether  angrily,  or  remorsefully,  or  in  denial,  or 
only  in  her  physical  infirmity,  did  not  appear. 

*'  There  was  a  child  called  Alice  Marwood,"  said  the 
daughter,  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  down  at  herself  in  ter- 
rible derision  of  herself,  "  born  among  poverty  and  neglect, 
and  nursed  in  it.  Nobody  taught  her,  nobody  stepped  for- 
ward to  help  her,  nobody  cared  for  her." 

"  Nobody  !  "  echoed  the  mother,  pointing  to  herself,  and 
striking  her  breast. 

"  The  only  care  she  knew,"  returned  the  daughter,  "  was 
to  be  beaten,  and  stinted,  and  abused  sometimes  ;  and  she 
might  have  done  better  without  that.  She  lived  in  homes 
like  this,  and  in  the  streets,  with  a  crowd  of  little  wretches 
like  herself  ;  and  yet  she  brought  good  looks  out  of  this 
childhood.  So  much  the  worse  for  her.  She  had  better 
have  been  hunted  and  worried  to  death  for  ugliness." 

"  Go  on  !  go  on  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother. 

**  I  am  going  on,"  returned  the  daughter.  "  There  was  a 
girl  called  Alice  Marwood.  She  was  handsome.  She  was 
taught  too  late,  and  taught  all  wrong.  She  was  too  well 
cared  for,  too  well  trained,  too  well  helped  on,  too  much 
looked  after.  You  were  very  fond  of  her — you  were  better 
off  then.  What  came  to  that  girl  comes  to  thousands  every 
year.     It  was  only  ruin,  and  she  was  born  to  it." 

"  After  all  these  years  !  "  whined  the  old  woman.  "  My 
gal  begins  with  this." 

"She'll  soon  have  ended,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  There  was  a  criminal  called  Alice  Marwood — a  girl  still, 
but  deserted  and  an  outcast.  And  she  was  tried,  and  she 
was  sentenced.  And  lord,  how  the  gentlemen  in  the  court 
talked  about  it  !  and  how  grave  the  judge  was  on  her  duty, 
and  on  her  having  perverted  the  gifts  of  nature — as  if  he 
didn't  know  better  than  any  body  there,  that  they  had  been 
made  curses  to  her  ! — and  how  he  preached  about  the  strong 
arm  of  the  law — so  very  strong  to  save  her,  when  she  was 
an  innocent  and  helpless  little  wretch  ;  and  how  solemn  and 
religious  it  all  was.  I  have  thought  of  that  many  times 
since,  to  be  sure  !  " 

She  folded  her  arms  tightly  on  her  breast,  and  laughed  in 
a  tone  that  made  the  howl  of  the  old  woman  musical. 

"  So,  Alice  Marwood  was  transported,  mother,"  she  pur- 
sued, "  and  was  sent  to  learn  her  duty,  where  there  was 
twenty  times  less   duty,  and  more  wickedness,  and   wrong, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  491 

and  infamy,  than  here.  And  AUce  Marwood  is  come  back 
a  woman.  Such  a  woman  as  she  ought  to  be,  after  all  this. 
In  good  time,  there  will  be  more  solemnity,  and  more  fine 
talk,  and  more  strong  arm,  most  likely,  and  there  will  be  an 
end  of  her  ;  but  the  gentlemen  needn't  be  afraid  of  being 
thrown  out  of  work.  There's  crowds  of  little  wretches,  bov 
and  girl,  growing  up  in  any  of  the  streets  they  live  in,  that'll 
keep  them  to  it  till  they've  made  their  fortunes." 

The  old  woman  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table,  and  rest- 
ing her  face  upon  her  two  hands,  made  a  show  of  being  in 
great  distress — or  really  was,  perhaps. 

"  There  !  I  have  done,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  with 
a  motion  of  her  head,  as  if  in  dismissal  of  the  subject.  ''  I 
have  said  enough.  Don't  let  you  and  I  talk  of  being  duti- 
ful, whatever  we  do.  Your  childhood  was  like  mine,  I  sup- 
pose. So  m.uch  the  worse  for  both  of  us.  I  don't  want  to 
blame  you,  or  to  defend  myself  ;  why  should  I  ?  That's  all 
over  long  ago.  But  I  am  a  woman — not  a  girl,  now — and 
you  an(t^I  needn't  make  a  show  of  our  history,  like  the  gen- 
tlemen in  the  court.      JFc  know  all  about  it  well  enough." 

Lost  and  degraded  as  she  was,  there  was  a  beauty  in  her, 
both  of  face,  and  form,  which,  even  in  its  worst  expression, 
could  not  but  be  recognized  as  such  by  any  one  regarding 
her  with  the  least  attention.  As  she  subsided  into  silence, 
and  her  face  v/hich  had  been  harshly  agitated,  quieted  down  ; 
while  her  dark  eyes,  fixed  upon  the  fire,  exchanged  the  reck- 
less light  that  had  animated  them,  for  one  that  was  softened 
by  something  like  sorrow  ;  there  shone  through  all  her  way- 
worn misery  and  fatigue  a  ray  of  the  departed  radiance  of 
the  fallen  angel. 

Her  mother,  after  watching  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking,  ventured  to  steal  her  withered  hand  a  little  nearer 
to  her  across  the  table  ;  and  finding  that  she  permitted  this^ 
to  touch  her  face  and  smooth  her  hair.  With  the  feeling, 
as  it  seemed,  that  the  old  woman  was  at  least  sincere  in  this 
show  of  interest,  Alice  made  no  movement  to  check  her  ; 
so,  advancing  by  degrees,  she  bound  up  her  daughter's  hair 
afresh,  took  off  her  wet  shoes,  if  they  deserved  the  name, 
spread  something  dry  upon  her  shoulders,  and  hovered 
humbly  about  her,  muttering  to  herself,  as  she  recognized 
her  old  features  and  expression  more  and  more. 

"  You  are  very  poor,  mother,  I  see,"  said  Alice,  looking 
round,  when  she  had  sat  thus  for  some  time. 

"  Bitter  poor,  my  deary,"  replied  the  old  woman. 


492  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

She  admired  her  daughter,  and  was  afraid  of  her.  Per- 
haps her  admiration,  such  as  it  was,  had  originated  long  ago,- 
when  she  first  found  any  thing  that  was  beautiful  appearing 
in  the  midst  of  the  squalid  fight  of  her  existence.  Perhaps 
her  fear  was  referable,  in  some  sort,  to  the  retrospect 
she  had  so  lately  heard.  Be  this  as  it  might,  she  stood,  sub- 
missively and  deferentially,  before  her  child,  and  inclined 
her  head,  as  if  in  a  pitiful  entreaty  to  be  spared  any  further 
reproach. 

"  How  have  you  lived  ?  " 
•  "  By  begging,  my  deary." 

"  And  pilfering,  mother  ?  " 

"  Sometimes,  Ally — in  a  very  small  way.  I  am  old  and 
timid.  I  have  taken  trifles  from  children  now  and  then,  my 
deary,  but  not  often.  I  have  tramped  about  the  country, 
pet,  and  I  know  what  I  know.     I  have  watched." 

"  Watched  ?  "  returned  the  daughter,  looking  at  her. 

"  1  have  hung  about  a  family,  my  deary,"  said  the  mother, 
even  more  humbly  and  submissively  than  before.      • 

"  What  family  ?  " 

"  Hush,  darling.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  I  did  it  for 
the  love  of  you.  In  memory  of  my  poor  gal  beyond  seas." 
She  put  out  her  hand  deprecatingly,  and  drawing  it  back 
again,  laid  it  on  her  lips. 

"  Years  ago,  my  deary,"  she  pursued,  glancing  timidly  at 
the  attentive  and  stern  face  opposed  to  her.  **  I  came  across 
his  little  child,  by  chance." 

I'  Whose  child  ?  " 
Not  his,  Alice  deary ;  don't  look  at  me  like  that  ;   not 
his.     How  could  it  be  his  ?     You  know  he  has  none." 

''Whose,  then  ?  "  returned  the  daughter.     "  You  said  his." 

*'  Hush,  Ally  ;  you  frighten  me,  deary.  Mr.  Dombey's — 
only  Mr.  Dombey's.  Since  then,  darling,  I  have  seen  them 
often.     I  have  seen  /ii'm." 

In  uttering  this  last  word,  the  old  woman  shrunk  and 
recoiled,  as  if  with  a  sudden  fear  that  her  daughter  would 
strike  her.  But  though  the  daughter's  face  was  fixed  upon 
her,  and  expressed  the  most  vehement  passion,  she  remained 
still  ;  except  that  she  clenched  her  arms  tighter  and  tighter 
within  each  other,  on  her  bosom,  as  if  to  restrain  them  by 
that  means  from  doing  an  injury  to  herself,  or  some  one  else, 
in  the  blind  fury  of  the  wrath   that  suddenly  possessed  her. 

"  Little  he  thought  who  I  was  !  "  said  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  clenched  hand. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  493 

"  And  little  he  cared  !  "  muttered  her  daughter,  between 
her  teeth. 

''  But  there  we  were,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  face  to  face. 
I  spoke  to  him,  and  he  spoke  to  me.  I  sat  and  watched  him 
as  he  went  away  down  a  long  grove  of  trees  ;  and  at  every 
step  he  took,  I  cursed  him  soul  and  body." 

"  He  will  thrive  in  spite  of  that,"  returned  the  daughter, 
disdainfully. 

"  Av,  he  is  thriving,"  said  the  mother. 
She' held  her  peace  ;   for  the   face   and   form  before  her 
were  unshaped  by  rage.     It  seemed   as  if  the  bosom  would 
burst  with   the  emotions  that  strove  within  it.     The  effort 
that  constrained  and  held  it  pent  up  was  no  less  formidable 
than  the  rage  itself  ;  no  less  bespeakmg  the  violent  and  dan- 
gerous character  of  the  woman  who  made  it.     But  it  suc- 
ceeded, and  she  asked,  after  a  silence  : 
"  Is  he  married  ?  " 
"No.  deary,"  said  the  mother. 
*'  Going  to  be  ?  " 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  deary.  Buthismaster  and  friend 
is  married.  Oh,  we  may  give  him  joy  !  We  may  give  'em 
all  joy  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  hugging  herself  with  her 
lean  arms  in  her  exultation.  "  Nothmg  but  joy  to  us  will 
come  of  that  marriage.     Mind  me  !  ' 

The  daughter  looked  at  her  for  an  explanation. 
"  But  you  are  wet  and  tired  ;  hungry  and  thirsty,"  said  the 
old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  ;  "  and  there's  little 
here,  and  little—"  diving  down  into  her  pocket,  and  jingling 
a  few  half-pence  on  the  table—"  little  here.  Have  you  any 
money,  Alice,  deary  ?  " 

The  covetous,  sharp,  eager  face  with  which  she  asked  the 
question  and  looked  on,  as  her  daughter  took  out  of  her 
bosom  the  little  gift  she  had  so  lately  received,  told  almost 
as  much  of  the  history  of  this  parent  as  the  child  herself 
had  told  in  words. 

'•  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

"  I  have  no  more.  I  should  not  have  this  but  for  charity." 
"  But  for  charity,  eh,  deary  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  bend- 
ing greedily  over  the  table  to  look  at  the  money,  which  she 
appeared  distrustful  of  her  daughter's  still  retaining  in  her 
hand,  and  gazing  on.  "  Humph  !  six  and  six  is  twelve  and 
six  eighteen — so — we  must  make  the  most  of  it.  I'll  go  buy 
something  to  eat  and  drink." 

With  greater  alacrity  than  might  have  been  expected  in 


494  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

one  of  her  appearance — for  age  and  misery  seemed  to  have 
made  her  as  decrepit  as  ugly — she  began  to  occupy  her 
trembling  hands  in  tying  an  old  bonnet  on  her  head,  and 
folding  a  torn  shawl  about  herself  ;  still  eying  the  money  in 
her  daughter's  hand,  with  the  same  sharp  desire. 

"  What  joy  is  to  come  to  us  of  this  marriage,  mother  ? " 
asked  the  daughter.     '^  You  have  not  told  me  that." 

*' The  joy,"  she  replied,  attiring  herself,  with  fumbling 
fingers,  ''  of  no  love  at  all,  and  much  pride  and  hate,  my 
deary.  The  joy  of  confusion  and  strife  among  'em,  proud 
as  they  are,  and  of  danger — danger,  Alice  !  " 

''  What  danger  ?  " 

"  /  have  seen  what  I  have  seen.  /  know  what  I  know  !  " 
chuckled  the  mother.  "  Let  some  look  to  it.  Let  some  be 
upon  their  guard.     My  gal  may  keep  good  company  yet  !  " 

Then,  seeing  that,  in  the  wondering  earnestness  with  which 
her  daughter  regarded  her,  her  hand  involuntarily  closed 
upon  the  money,  the  old  woman  made  more  speed  to  secure 
it,  and  hurriedly  added,  "  but  I'll  go  buy  something  ;  I'll  go 
buy  something." 

As  she  stood  with  her  hand  stretched  out  before  her 
daughter,  her  daughter  glancing  again  at  the  money,  put  it 
to  her  lips  before  parting  with  it. 

"  What,  Ally  !  Do  you  kiss  it  ?  "  chuckled  the  old  woman. 
*'  That's  like  me — I  often  do.  Oh,  it's  so  good  to  us  !  " 
squeezing  her  own  tarnished  half-pence  up  to  her  bag  of  a 
throat,  "  so  good  to  us  in  every  thing  but  not  coming  in 
heaps  !  " 

"  I  kiss  it,  mother,"  said  the  daughter,  "  or  I  did  then — I 
don't  know  that  I  ever  did  before — for  the  giver's  sake." 

"  The  giver,  eh,  deary  ?  "  retorted  the  old  woman,  whose 
dimmed  eyes  glistened  as  she  took  it.  "Ah  !  I'll  kiss  it  for 
the  giver's  sake,  too,  when  the  giver  can  make  it  go  further. 
But  I'll  go  spend  it,  deary.     I'll  be  back  directly." 

**  You  seem  to  say  you  know  a  great  deal,  mother,"  said 
the  daughter,  following  her  to  the  door  with  her  eyes.  "  You 
have  grov/n  very  wise  since  we  parted." 

"  Know  !  "  croaked  the  old  woman,  coming  back  a  step 
or  two,  *'  I  know  more  than  you  think.  I  know  more  than 
Ae  thinks,  deary,  as  I'll  tell  you  by  and  by.  I  know  all 
about  him." 

The  daughter  smiled  incredulously. 

''  I  know  of  his  brother,  Alice,"  said  the  old  woman,  stretch- 
ing out  her  neck  with  a  leer  of  malice  absolutely  frightful, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  495 

**  who  might  have  been  where  you  have  been — for  stealing 
money — and  who  lives  with  his  sister  over  yonder  by  the 
north  road  out  of  London." 

"  Where  ?  " 

"  By  the  north  road  out  of  London,  deary.  You  shall 
see  the  house  if  you  like.  It  ain't  much  to  boast  of,  genteel 
as  his  own  is.  No,  no,  no,"  cried  the  old  woman,  shaking 
her  head  and  laughing  ;  for  her  daughter  had  started  up, 
"  not  now  ;  it's  too  far  off  ;  it's  by  the  milestone,  where  the 
stones  are  heaped  ; — to-morrow,  deary,  if  it's  fine,  and  you 
are  in  the  humor.  But  I'll  go  spend — " 
•  "  Stop  !  "  and  the  daughter  flung  herself  upon  her,  with 
her  former  passion  raging  like  a  lire.  *'  The  sister  is  a  fair- 
faced  devil,  with  brown  hair?" 

The  old  woman,  amazed  and  terrified,  nodded  her  head. 

"I  see  the  shadow  of  him  in  her  face  !  It's  a.  red  house 
standing  by  itself.  Before  the  door  there  is  a  small  green 
porch." 

Again  the  old  woman  nodded. 

"  In  which  1  sat  to-day  !     Give  me  back  the  money." 

"  Alice  !     deary  !  " 

**  Give  me  back  the  money,  or  you'll  be  hurt." 

She  forced  it  from  the  old  woman's  hand  as  she  spoke, 
and  utterly  indifferent  to  her  complainings  and  entreaties, 
threw  on  the  garments  she  had  taken  off,  and  hurried  out 
with  headlong  speed. 

The  mother  followed,  limping  after  her  as  she  could,  and 
expostulating,  with  no  more  effect  upon  her  than  upon  the 
wind  and  'rain  and  darkness  that  encompassed  them. 
Obdurate  and  fierce  in  her  own  purpose,  and  indifferent  to 
all  besides,  the  daughter  defied  the  weather  and  the  distance, 
as  if  she  had  known  no  travel  or  fatigue,  and  made  for  the 
house  where  she  had  been  relieved.  After  some  quarter  of 
an  hour's  walking,  the  old  woman,  spent  and  out  of  breath, 
ventured  to  hold  her  by  the  skirts  ;  but  she  ventured  no 
more,  and  they  traveled  on  in  silence  through  the  wet  and 
gloom.  If  the  mother  now  and  then  uttered  a  word  of 
complaint,  she  stifled  it  lest  her  daughter  should  break 
away  from  her  and  leave  her  behind  ;  and  the  daughter  was 
dumb. 

It  was  within  an  hour  or  so  of  midnight,  when  they  left 
the  regular  streets  behind  them,  and  entered  on  the  deeper 
gloom  of  that  neutral  ground  where  the  house  was  situated. 
The  town  lay  in  the  distance,  lurid  and  lowering  ;  the  bleak 


496  DOMBEY   AND   SON.       ' 

wind  howled  over  the  open   space  ;   all  around  was  black, 
wild,  desolate. 

"  This  is  a  fit  place  for  me  !  "  said  the  daughter,  stop- 
ping to  look  back.  "  I  thought  so,  when  I  was  here  before, 
to-day.  " 

''  Alice,  my  deary,"  cried  the  mother,  pulling  her  gently 
by  the  skirt.     ''  Alice  !  " 

'*  What  now,  mother  ?  " 

"  Don't  give  the  money  back,  my  darling  ;  please  don't. 
We  can't  afford  it.  We  want  supper,  deary.  Money  is 
money,  whoever  gives  it.  Say  what  you  will,  but  keep  the 
money." 

"  See  there  !  "  was  all  the  daughter's  answer.  **  That  is 
the  nouse  I  mean.     Is  that  it  ?  " 

The  old  woman  nodded  in  the  affirmative  ;  and  a  few 
more  paces  brought  them  to  the  threshold.  There  was  the 
light  of  fire  and  candle  in  the  room  where  Alice  had  sat  to 
dry  her  clothes  ;  and  on  her  knocking  at  the  door,  John 
Carker  appeared  from  that  room. 

He  was  surprised  to  see  such  visitors  at  such  an  hour,  and 
asked  Alice  what  she  wanted. 

*'  I  want  your  sister,"  she  said.  "  The  woman  who  gave 
me  money  to-day." 

At  the  sound  of  her  raised  voice,  Harriet  came  out. 

*'  Oh  !  "  said  Alice.  **  You  are  here  !  Do  you  remember 
me?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  wondering. 

The  face  that  had  humbled  itself  before  her  looked  on 
her  now  with  such  invincible  hatred  and  defianCe  ;  and  the 
hand  that  had  gently  touched  her  arm  was  clenched  with 
such  a  show  of  evil  purpose,  as  if  it  would  gladly  strangle 
her  ;  that  she  drew  close  to  her  brother  for  protection. 

"  That  I  could  speak  with  you,  and  not  know  you  !  That 
I  could  come  near  you,  and  not  feel  what  blood  was  running 
in  your  veins,  by  the  tingling  of  my  own  !  "  said  Alice,  with 
a  menacing  gesture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?     What  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Done  !  "  returned  the  other.  "  You  have  sat  me  by 
your  fire  ;  you  have  given  me  food  and  money  ;  you  have 
bestowed  your  compassion  on  me  I  You  !  whose  name  I 
spit  upon  !  " 

The  old  woman,  with  a  malevolence  that  made  her  ugli- 
ness quite  awful,  shook  her  withered  hand  at  the  brother 
and  sister  in  confirmation  of  her  daughter,  but  plucked  her 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  497 

by  the  skirts  again,  nevertheless,  imploring  her  to  keep  the 
money. 

"  If  I  dropped  a  tear  upon  your  hand,  may  it  wither  it  up  ! 
If  I  spoke  a  gentle  word  in  your  hearing,  may  it  deafen  you  ! 
If  I  touched  you  with  my  lips,  may  the  touch  be  poison  to 
you  !  A  curse  upon  this  roof  that  gave  me  shelter  !  Sorrow 
and  shame  upon  your  head  !  Ruin  upon  all  belonging  to 
you  ! 

As  she  said  the  words,  she  threw  the  money  down  upon 
the  ground,  and  spurned  it  with  her  foot. 

"  I  tread  it  in  the  dust  :  I  wouldn't  take  it  if  it  paved  my 
way  to  Heaven  !  I  would  the  bleeding  foot  that  brought 
me  here  to-day  had  rotted  off,  before  it  led  me  to  your 
house  !  " 

Harriet,  pale  and  trembling,  restrained  her  brother,  and 
suffered  her  to  go  on  uninterrupted. 

**  It  was  well  that  I  should  be  pitied  and  forgiven  by  you, 
or  any  one  of  your  name,  in  the  first  hour  of  my  return  !  It 
was  well  that  you  should  act  the  kind  good  lady  to  me  !  I'll 
thank  you  when  I  die  ;  I'll  pray  for  you,  and  all  your  race, 
you  may  be  sure  !  " 

With  a  fierce  action  of  her  hand,  as  if  she  sprinkled 
hatred  on  the  ground,  and  with  it  devoted  those  who  were 
standing  there  to  destruction,  she  looked  up  once  at  the 
black  sky,  and  strode  out  into  the  wild  night. 

The  mother,  who  had  plucked  at  her  skirts  again  and 
again  in  vain,  and  had  eyed  the  money  lying  on  the  threshold 
with  an  absorbing  greed  that  seemed  to  concentrate  her 
faculties  upon  it,  would  have  prowled  about  until  the  house 
was  dark,  and  then  groped  in  the  mire  on  the  chance  of 
repossessing  herself  of  it.  But  the  daughter  drew  her  away, 
and  they  set  forth,  straight,  on  their  return  to  their  dwelling  ; 
the  old  woman  whimpering  and  bemoaning  their  loss  upon 
the  road,  and  fretfully  bewailing,  as  openly  as  she  dared,  the 
undutiful  conduct  of  her  handsome  girl  in  depriving  her  of 
a  supper  on  the  very  first  night  of  their  reunion. 

Supperless  to  bed  she  went,  saving  for  a  few  coarse  frag- 
ments ;  and  those  she  sat  mumbling  and  munching  over  a 
scrap  of  fire,  long  after  her  undutiful  daughter  lay  asleep. 

Were  this  miserable  mother  and  this  miserable  daughter 
only  the  reduction  to  their  lowest  grade,  of  certain  social 
vices  sometimes  prevailing  higher  up  ?  In  this  round  world 
of  many  circles  within  circles,  do  we  make  a  weary  journey 


49S  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

from  the  high  grade  to  the  low,  to  find  at  last  that  they  li^ 
close  together,  that  the  two  extremes  touch,  and  that  our 
journey's  end  is  but  our  starting-place  ?  Allowing  for  great 
difference  of  stuff  and  texture,  was  the  pattern  of  this  woof 
repeated  among  gentle  blood  at  all  ? 

Say,  Edith   Dombey  ?     And    Cleopatra,  best  of  mothers, 
let  us  have  your  testimony  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   HAPPY    PAIR. 

The  dark  blot  on  the  street  is  gone.  Mr.  Dombey's 
mansion,  if  it  be  a  gap  among  the  other  houses  any  longer, 
is  only  so  because'  it  is  not  to  be  vied  with  in  its  brightness 
and  haughtily  casts  them  off.  The  saying  is,  that  home  is 
home,  be  it  never  so  homely.  If  it  hold  good  in  the  opposite 
contingency,  and  home  is  home  be  it  never  so  stately,  what 
an  altar  to  the  household  gods  is  raised  up  here  ! 

Lights  are  sparkling  in  the  windows  this  evening,  and  the 
ruddy  glow  of  fires  is  warm  and  bright  upon  the  hangings 
and  soft  carpets,  and  the  dinner  waits  to  be  served,  and  the 
dinner-table  is  handsomely  set  forth,  though  only  for  four 
persons,  and  the  sideboard  is  cumbrous  with  plate.  It  is 
the  first  time  that  the  house  has  been  arranged  for  occupa- 
tion since  its  late  changes,  and  the  happy  pair  are  looked 
for  every  minute. 

Only  second  to  the  wedding  morning,  in  the  interest  and 
expectation  it  engenders  among  the  household,  is  this  even- 
ing of  the  coming  home.  Mrs.  Perch  is  in  the  kitchen 
taking  tea  ;  and  has  made  the  tour  of  the  establishment,  and 
priced  the  silks  and  damasks  by  the  yard,  and  exhausted 
every  interjection  in  the  dictionary  and  out  of  it  expressive 
of  admiration  and  wonder.  The  upholsterer's  foreman,  who 
has  left  his  hat  with  a  pocket-handkerchief  in  it,  both  smell- 
ing strongly  of  varnish,  under  a  chair  in  the  hall,  lurks  about 
the  house,  gazing  upward  at  the  cornices,  and  downward  at 
the  carpets,  and  occasionally,  in  a  silent  transport  of  enjoy- 
ment, taking  a  rule  out  of  his  pocket,  and  skirmishingly 
measuring  expensive  objects  with  unutterable  feelings.  Cook 
is  in  high  spirits  and  says  give  her  a  place  where  there's 
plenty  of  company  (as  she'll  bet  you  sixpence  there  will  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  499 

now),  lOr  she  is  of  a  lively  disposition,  and  she  always  was 
from  a  child,  and  she  don't  mind  who  knows  it  ;  which  senti- 
ment elicits  from  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Perch  a  responsive  mur- 
mur of  support  and  approbation.  All  the  housemaid  hopes 
is,  happiness  for 'em — but  marriage  is  a  lottery,  and  the 
more  she  thinks  about  it,  the  more  she  feels  the  independ- 
ence and  the  safety  of  a  single  life.  Mr.  Towlinson  is 
saturnine  and  grim,  and  says  that's  his  opinion  too,  and 
give  him  war  besides,  and  down  with  the  French — for  this 
young  man  has  a  general  impression  that  every  foreigner 
is  a  Frenchman,  and  must  be  by  the  laws  of  nature. 

At  each  new  sound  of  wheels,  they  all  stop,  whatever  they 
are  saying,  and  listen  ;  and  more  than  once  there  is  a 
general  starting  up  and  a  cry  of  "  Here  they  are  !  "  But 
here  they  are  not  yet  ;  and  cook  begins  to  mourn  over  the 
dinner,  which  has  been  put  back  twice,  and  the  upholsterer's 
foreman  still  goes  lurking  about  the  rooms,  undisturbed  in 
his  blissful  reverie  ! 

Florence  is  ready  to  receive  her  father  and  her  new 
mamma.  Whether  the  emotions  that  are  throbbing  in  her 
breast  originate  in  pleasure  or  in  pain,  she  hardly  knows. 
But  the  fluttering  heart  sends  added  color  to  her  cheeks,  and 
brightness  to  her  eyes  ;  and  they  say  down  stairs,  drawing 
their  heads  together — for  they  always  speak  softly  when  they 
speak  of  her — how  beautiful  Miss  Florence  looks  to-night, 
and  what  a  sweet  young  lady  she  has  grown,  poor  dear  ! 
A  pause  succeeds  ;  and  then  cook,  feeling,  as  president,  that 
her  sentiments  are  waited  for,  wonders  whether — and  there 
stops.  The  house-maid  wonders,  too,  and  so  does  Mrs. 
Perch,  who  has  the  happy  social  faculty  of  always  wonder- 
ing when  other  people  wonder,  without  being  at  all  particular 
what  she  wonders  at.  Mr.  Towlinson,  who  now  descries  an 
opportunity  of  bringing  down  the  spirits  of  the  ladies  to  his 
own  level,  says  wait  and  see  ;  he  wishes  some  people  were 
well  out  of  this.  Cook  leads  a  sigh  then,  and  a  murniur  of 
"  Ah,  it's  a  strange  world,  it  is  indeed  !  "  and  when  it  has 
gone  round  the  table,  adds  persuasively,  "  but  Miss  Florence 
can't  well  be  the  worse  for  any  change,  Tom."  Mr.  Tow- 
linson's  rejoinder,  pregnant  with  frightful  meaning,  is,  "  Oh, 
can't  she  though  ? "  and  sensible  that  a  mere  man  can 
scarcely  be  more  prophetic,  or  improve  upon  that,  he  nolds 
his  peace. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  prepared  to  greet  her  darling  daughter  and 
dear  son-in-law  with  open  arms,  is  appropriately  attired  for 


500  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

that  purpose  in  a  very  youthful  costume,  with  short  sleeves. 
At  present,  however,  her  charms  are  blooming  in  the  shade 
of  her  own  apartments,  whence  she  has  not  emerged  since 
she  took  possession  of  them  a  few  hours  ago,  and  where  she 
is  fast  growing  fretful,  on  account  of  the  postponement  of 
dinner.  The  maid,  who  ought  to  be  a  skeleton,  but  is  in 
truth  a  buxom  damsel,  is,  on  the  other  hand,  in  a  most 
amiable  state  ;  considering  her  quarterly  stipend  much  safer 
than  heretofore,  and  foreseeing  a  great  improvement  in  her 
board  and  lodging. 

Where  are  the  happy  pair  for  whom  this  brave  home  is 
waiting  !  Do  steam,  tide,  wind,  and  horses,  all  abate  their 
speed,  to  linger  on  such  happiness  ?  Does  the  swarm  of 
loves  and  graces  hovering  about  them  retard  their  progress 
by  its  numbers  ?  Are  there  so  many  flowers  in  their  happy 
path,  that  they  can  scarcely  move  along  without  entangle- 
ment in  thornless  roses  and  sweetest  brier  ? 

They  are  here  at  last  !  The  noise  of  wheels  is  heard, 
grows  louder,  and  a  carriage  drives  up  to  the  door  !  A 
thundering  knock  from  the  obnoxious  foreigner  anticipates 
the  rush  of  Mr.  Towlinson  and  party  to  open  it  ;  and 
Mr.  Dombey  and  his  bride  alight,  and  walk  in  arm  and 
arm. 

*'  My  sweetest  Edith  !  "  cries  an  agitated  voice  upon  the 
stairs.  *'  My  dearest  Dombey  !  "  and  the  short  sleeves 
wreath  themselves  about  the  happy  couple  in  turn,  and 
embrace  them. 

Florence  had  come  down  to  the  hall  too,  but  did  not 
advance  ;  reserving  her  timid  welcome  until  these  nearer  and 
dearer  transports  should  subside.  But  the  eyes  of  Edith 
sought  her  out  upon  the  threshold  ;  and  dismissing  her 
sensitive  parent  with  a  slight  kiss  on  the  cheeek,  she  hurried 
on  to  Florence  and  embraced  her. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Florence  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey,  putting 
out  his  hand. 

As  Florence,  trembling,  raised  it  to  her  lips,  she  met  his 
glance.  The  look  was  cold  and  distant  enough,  but  it 
stirred  her  heart  to  think  that  she  observed  in  it  something 
more  of  interest  than  he  had  ever  shown  before.  It  even 
expressed  a  kind  of  faint  surprise,  and  not  a  disagreeable 
surprise,  at  sight  of  her.  She  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  to  his 
any  more  ;  but  she  felt  that  he  looked  at  her  once  again, 
and  not  less  favorably.  Oh  what  a  thrill  of  joy  shot  through 
her,  awakened  by  even  this  intangible  and  baseless  confirma- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  501 

tlon  of  her  hope  that  she  would  learn  to  win  him,  through 
her  new  and  beautiful  mamma  ! 

*'  You    will    not    be    long    dressing,    Mrs.     Dombey,    I 
presume  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 
•     "I  shall  be  ready  immediately." 

*'  Let  them  send  up  dinner  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

With  that  Mr.  Dombey  stalked  away  to  his  own  dressing- 
room,  and  Mrs.  Dombey  went  up  stairs  to  hers.  ^Irs.  Skew- 
ton  and  Florence  repaired  to  the  drawing-room,  where  that 
excellent  mother  considered  it  incumbent  on  her  to  shed  a 
few  irrepressible  tears,  supposed  to  be  forced  from  her  by 
her  daughter's  felicity  ;  and  which  she  was  still  drying,  very 
gingerly,  with  a  laced  corner  of  her  pocket-handkerchief, 
when  ner  son-in-law  appeared. 

"  And  how,  my  dearest  Dombey,  did  you  find  that 
delightfulest  of  cities,  Paris?"  she  asked,  subduing  her 
emotion. 

"  It  was  cold,"  returned  Mr.   Dombey. 

"  Gay  as  ever,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  of  course." 

"  Not  particularly.  I  thought  it  dull,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

"  Fie,  my  dearest  Dombey  !  "  archly  ;  "  dull  !  " 

"  It  made  that  impression  upon  me,  mamma,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  grave  politeness.  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Dombey 
found  it  dull  too.  She  mentioned  once  or  twice  that  she 
thought  it  so." 

"  Why,  you  naughty  girl  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Skewton, 
rallying  her  dear  child,  who  now  entered,  "  what  dread- 
fully heretical  things  have  you  been  saying  about  Paris  ?  " 

Edith  raised  her  eyebrows  with  an  air  of  weariness  ;  and 
passing  the  folding  doors,  which  were  thrown  open  to  dis- 
play the  suite  of  rooms  in  their  new  and  handsome  garniture, 
and  barely  glancing  at  them  as  she  passed,  sat  down  by 
Florence. 

"  My  dear  Dombey,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  how  charm- 
ingly these  people  have  carried  out  every  idea  that  we 
hinted.  Th^y  have  made  a  perfect  palace  of  the  house, 
positively." 

"  It  is  handsome,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round.  "  I 
directed  that  no  expense  should  be  spared  ;  and  all  that 
money  could  do  has  been  done,  I  believe." 

"  And  what  can  it  not  do,  dear  Dombey  }  "  observed 
Cleopatra. 

"  It  is  powerful,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 


5a^  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  looked  in  his  solemn  way  toward  his  wife,  but  not  A 
word  said  she. 

"  1  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  addressing  her  after  a  moment's 
silence,  with  especial  distinctness ;  "  that  these  altera- 
tions meet  with  your  approval  ?  " 

"  They  are  as  handsome  as  they  can  be,"  she  returned, 
with  haughty  carelessness.  "  They  should  be  so,  of  course. 
And  I  supppose  they  are." 

An  expression  of  scorn  was  habitual  to  the  proud  face, 
and  seemed  inseparable  from  it  ;  but  the  contempt  with 
which  it  received  any  appeal  to  admiration,  respect,  or  con- 
sideration on  the  ground  of  his  riches,  no  matter  how  slight 
or  ordinary  in  itself,  was  a  new  and  different  expression, 
unequaled  in  intensity  by  any  other  of  which  it  was  capable. 
Whether  Mr.  Dombey,  wrapped  in  his  own  greatness,  was  at 
all  aware  of  this,  or  no,  there  had  not  been  wanting  oppor- 
tunities already  for  his  complete  enlightenment  ;  and  at  that 
moment  it  might  have  been  affected  by-  the  one  glance  of 
the  dark  eye,  that  lighted  on  him,  after  it  had  rapidly  and 
scornfully  surveyed  the  theme  of  his  self-glorification.  He 
might  have  read  in  that  one  glance  that  nothing  that  his 
wealth  could  do,  though  it  were  increased  ten  thousand- 
fold, could  win  him  for  its  own  sake,  one  look  of  softened 
recognition  from  the  defiant  woman  linked  to  him,  but 
arrayed  with  her  whole  soul  against  him.  He  might  have 
read  in  that  one  glance  that  even  for  its  sordid  and  merce- 
nary influence  upon  herself,  she  spurned  it,  while  she  claimed 
its  utmost  power  as  her  right,  her  bargain — as  the  base  and 
worthless  recompense  for  which  she  had  become  his  wife. 
He  might  have  read  in  it  that,  ever  baring  her  own  head  for 
the  lightning  of  her  own  contempt  and  pride  to  strike,  the 
most  innocent  allusion  to  the  power  of  his  riches  degraded 
her  anew,  sunk  her  deeper  in  her  own  respect,  and  made  the 
blight  and  waste  within  her  more  complete. 

But  dinner  was  announced,  and  Mr.  Dombey  led  down 
Cleopatra  ;  Edith  and  his  daughter  following.  Sweeping 
past  the  gold  and  silver  demonstration  on  the  sideboard  as  if 
it  were  heaped-up  dirt,  and  deigning  to  bestow  no  look 
upon  the  elegancies  around  her,  she  took  her  place  at  his 
board  for  the  first  time,  and  sat,  like  a  statue  at  the 
feast. 

Mr.  Dombey,  being  a  good  deal  in  the  statue  way  himself, 
was  well  enough  pleased  to  see  his  handsome  wife  immov- 
able and  proud  and  cold.     Her  deportment  being  always 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  503 

elegant  and  graceful,  this  as  a  general  behavior  was  agree- 
able and  congenial  to  him.  Presiding,  therefore,  with  his 
accustomed  dignity,  and  not  at  all  reflecting  on  his  wife  by 
any  warmth  or  hilarity  of  his  own,  he  performed  his  share  of 
the  honors  of  the  table  with  a  cool  satisfaction  ;  and  the 
installation  dinner,  though  not  regarded  down- stairs  as  a 
great  success,  or  very  promising  beginning,  passed  off, 
above,  in  a  sufficiently  polite,  genteel,  and  frosty  man- 
ner. 

Soon  after  tea,  Mrs.  Skewton,  who  affected  to  be  quite  over- 
come and  worn  out  by  her  emotions  of  happiness,  arising  in  the 
contemplation  of  her  dear  child  united  to  the  man  of  her 
heart,  but  who,  there  is  reason  to  suppose,  found  this  family 
party  somewhat  dull,  as  she  yawned  for  one  hour  continually 
behind  her  fan,  retired  to  bed.  Edith,  also,  silently  withdrew 
and  came  back  no  more.  Thus  it  happened  that  Florence, 
who  had  been  up-stairs  to  have  some  conversation  with 
Diogenes,  returning  to  the  drawing-room  with  her  little 
work-basket,  found  no  one  there  but  her  father,  who  was 
walking  to  and  fro  in  dreary  magnificence. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  Shall  I  go  away,  papa  ?  "  said  Flor- 
ence faintly,  hesitating  at  the  door. 

"  No,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  round  over  his 
shoulder  ;  "  you  can  come  and  go  here,  Florence,  as  you 
please.     This  is  not  my  private  room." 

Florence  entered,  and  sat  down  at  a  distant  little  table 
with  her  work  ;  finding  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
— for  the  very  first  time  within  her  memory  from  her  infancy 
to  that  hour — alone  \yith  her  father,  as  his  companion.  She, 
his  natural  companion,  his  only  child,  who  in  her  lonely  life 
and  grief  had  known  the  suffering  of  a  breaking  heart  ;  who, 
in  her  rejected  love,  had  never  breathed  his  name  to  God  at 
night  but  with  a  tearful  blessing,  heavier  on  him  than  a 
curse  ;  who  had  prayed  to  die  young,  so  she  might  only  die 
in  his  arms  ;  who  had,  all  through,  repaid  the  agony  of 
slight  and  coldness,  and  dislike,  with  patient,  unexacting 
love,  excusing  him  and  pleading  for  him,  like  his  better 
angel ! 

She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  were  dim.  His  figure  seemed 
to  grow  in  height  and  bulk  before  her  as  he  paced  the  room; 
now  it  was  all  blurred  and  indistinct  ;  now  clear  again,  and 
plain;  and  now  she  seemed  to  think  that  this  had  happened; 
just  the  same,  a  multitude  of  years  ago.  She  yearned 
toward  him,  and  yet  shrunk  from  his  approach.     Unnatural 


504  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

emotion  in  a  child,  innocent  of  wrong  !  Unnatural  the  hand 
that  had  directed  the  sharp  plow,  which  furrowed  up  her 
gentle  nature  for  the  sowing  of  its  seeds  ! 

Bent  upon  not  distressing  or  offending  him  by  her 
distress,  Florence  controlled  herself,  and  sat  quietly  at  her 
work.  After  a  few  more  turns  across  and  across  the  room, 
he  left  off  pacing  it  ;  and  withdrawing  into  a  shadowy 
corner  at  some  distance,  where  there  was  an  easy-chair,  cov- 
ered his  head  with  a  handkerchief,  and  composed  himself  to 
sleep. 

It  was  enough  for  Florence  to  sit  there  watching  him  ; 
turning  her  eyes  toward  his  chair  from  time  to  time  ;  watch- 
ing him  with  her  thoughts,  when  her  face  was  intent  upon 
her  work  ;  and  sorrowfully  glad  to  think  that  he  could  sleep 
while  she  was  there,  and  that  he  was  not  made  restless  by  her 
strange  and  long-forbidden  presence. 

What  would  have  been  her  thoughts  if  she  had  known 
that  he  was  steadily  regarding  her  ;  that  the  veil  upon  his 
face,  by  accident  or  by  design,  was  so  adjusted  that  his  sight 
was  free,  and  that  it  never  wandered  from  her  face  an 
instant.  That  when  she  looked  toward  him,  in  the  obscure, 
dark  corner,  her  speaking  eyes,  more  earnest  and  pathetic  \ti 
their  voiceless  speech  than  all  the  orators  of  all  the  world, 
and  impeaching  him  more  nearly  in  their  mute  address,  met 
his  and  did  not  know  it.  That  when  she  bent  her  head 
again  over  her  work,  he  drew  his  breath  more  easily,  but 
with  the  same  attention  looked  upon  her  still — upon  her 
white  brow  and  her  falling  hair,  and  busy  hands  ;  and  once 
attracted,  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  turn  his  eyes 
away  ! 

And  what  were  his  thoughts  meanwhile  !  With  what 
emotions  did  he  prolong  the  attentive  gaze  covertly  directed 
on  his  unknown  daughter  !  Was  there  reproach  to  him  in  the 
quiet  figure  and  the  mild  eyes  ?  Had  he  begun  to  feel  her 
disregarded  claims,  and  did  they  touch  him  home  at  last, 
and  waken  him  to  some  sense  of  his  cruel  injustice  ? 

There  are  yielding  moments  in  the  lives  of  the  sternest 
and  hardest  men,  though  such  men  often  keep  their  secret 
well.  The  sight  of  her  in  her  beauty,  almost  changed  into 
a  woman  without  his  knowledge,  may  have  struck  out  some 
such  moments  even  in  his  life  of  pride.  Some  passing 
thought  that  he  had  had  a  happy  home  within  his  reach — had 
had  a  household  spirit  bending  at  his  feet — had  overlooked 
it  in  his  stiff-necked,  sullen  arrogance,  and  wandered  away 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  5^5 

and  lost  himself,  may  have  engendered  them.  Some  simple 
eloquence  distinctly  heard,  though  only  uttered  in  her  eyes, 
unconscious  that  he  read  them,  as  "  By  the  death-beds  I  have 
tended,  by  the  childhood  I  have  suffered,  by  our  meeting  in 
this  dreary  house  at  midnight,  by  the  cry  wrung  from  me  in 
the  anguish  of  my  heart,  oh,  father,  turn  to  me  and  seek  a 
refuge  in  my  love  before  it  is  too  late  !  "  may  have  arrested 
them.  Meaner  and  lower  thoughts,  as  that  his  dead  boy 
was  now  superseded  by  new  ties,  and  he  could  forgive  the 
having  been  supplanted  in  his  affection,  may  have  occa- 
sioned them.  The  mere  association  of  her  as  an  ornament, 
with  all  the  ornament  and  pomp  about  him,  may  have  been 
sufficient.  But  as  he  looked,  he  softened  to  her  more  and 
more.  As  he  looked,  she  became  blended  with  the  child  he 
had  loved,  and  he  could  hardly  separate  the  two.  As  he 
looked,  he  saw  her  for  an  instant  by  a  clearer  and  brighter 
light,  not  bending  over  that  child's  pillow  as  his  rival — mon- 
strous thought — but  as  the  spirit  of  his  home,  and  in  the 
action  tending  himself  no  less,  as  he  sat  once  more  with  his 
bowed-down  head  upon  his  hand  at  the  foot  of  the  little  bed. 
He  felt  inclined  to  speak  to  her,  and  call  her  to  him.  The 
words,  ''  Florence,  come  here  !  "  were  rising  to  his  lips — 
but  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  they  were  so  very  strange — 
when  they  were  checked  and  stifled  by  a  footstep  on  the 
stair. 

It  was  his  wife's.  She  had  exchanged  her  dinner-dress 
for  a  loose  robe,  and  unbound  her  hair,  which  fell  freely 
about  her  neck.  But  this  was  not  the  change  in  her  that 
startled  him. 

"  Florence,  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  have  been  looking  for  you 
everywhere." 

As  she  sat  down  by  the  side  of  Florence,  she  stooped 
and  kissed  her  hand.  He  hardly  knew  his  wife.  She  was 
so  changed.  It  was  not  merely  that  her  smile  was  new  to 
him — though  that  he  had  never  seen  ;  but  her  manner,  the 
tone  of  her  voice,  the  light  of  her  eyes,  the  interest  and  con- 
fidence, and  winning  wish  to  please,  expressed  in  all — this 
was  not  Edith. 

"  Softly,  dear  mamma.     Papa  is  asleep." 

It  was  Edith  now.  She  looked  toward  the  corner  where 
he  was,  and  he  knew  that  face  and  manner  very  well. 

"  I  scarcely  thought  you  could  be  here,  Florence." 

Again,  how  altered  and  how  softened,  in  an  instant  I 

"  I  left  here  early,"  pursued  Edith,  "  purposely  to  sit  up« 


5o6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

stairs  and  talk  with  you.  But,  going  to  your  room,  I  found 
my  bird  was  flown,  and  I  have  been  waiting  there  ever  since, 
expecting  its  return." 

If  it  had  been  a  bird,  indeed,  she  could  not  have  taken  it 
more  tenderly  and  gently  to  her  breast  than  she  did  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Come,  dear  !  " 

"  Papa  will  not  expect  to  find  me,  I  suppose,  when  he 
wakes,"  hesitated  Florence. 

"  Do  you  think  he  will,  Florence  ?  "  said  Edith,  looking 
full  upon  her. 

Florence  drooped  her  head,  and  rose,  and  put  up  her 
work-basket.  Edith  drew  her  hand  through  her  arm,  and 
they  went  out  of  the  room  like  sisters.  Her  very  step  was 
different  and  new  to  him,  Mr.  Dombey  thought,  as  his  eyes 
followed  her  to  the  door. 

He  sat  in  his  shadowy  corner  so  long,  that  the  church 
clocks  struck  the  hour  three  times  before. he  moved  that 
night.  All  that  while  his  face  was  still  intent  upon  the  spot 
where  Florence  had  been  seated.  The  room  grew  darker, 
as  the  candles  waned  and  went  out  ;  but  a  darkness  gath- 
ered on  his  face,  exceeding  any  that  the  night  could  cast, 
and  rested  there. 

Florence  and  Edith,  seated  before  the  fire  in  the  remote 
room  where  little  Paul  had  died,  talked  together  for  a  long 
time.  Diogenes,  who  was  of  the  party,  had  at  first  objected 
to  the  admission  of  Edith,  and,  even  in  deference  to  his 
mistress's  wish,  had  only  permitted  it  under  growling  protest. 
But,  emerging  by  little  and  little  from  the  anteroom, 
whither  he  had  retired  in  dudgeon,  he  soon  appeared  to 
comprehend,  that  with  the  most  amiable  intentions  he  had 
made  one  of  those  mistakes  which  will  occasionally  arise  in 
the  best  regulated  dogs'  minds  ;  as  a  friendly  apology  for 
which  he  stuck  himself  up  on  end  between  the  two,  in  a  very 
hot  place  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat  panting  at  it,  with  his 
tongue  out,  and  a  most  imbecile  expression  of  countenance, 
listening  to  the  conversation. 

It  turned,  at  first,  on  Florence's  books  and  favorite  pur- 
suits, and  on  the  manner  in  which  she  had  beguiled  the 
interval  since  the  marriage.  The  last  theme  opened  up  to 
her  a  subject  which  lay  very  near  her  heart,  and  she  said, 
with  the  tears  starting  to  her  eyes  : 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  I  have  had  a  great  sorrow  since  that 
day." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  5^7 

"  You  a  great  sorrow,  Florence  ?  " 

"Yes.      Poor  Walter  is  drowned." 

Florence  spread  her  hands  before  her  face,  and  wept  with 
all  her  heart.  Many  as  were  the  secret  tears  which  Walter's 
fate  had  cost  her,  they  flowed  yet,  when  she  thought  or  spoke 
of  him. 

"But  tell  me,  dear,"  said  Edith,  soothing  her.  "Who 
was  Walter  ?     What  was  he  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  was  my  brother,  mamma.  After  dear  Paul  died,  we 
said  we  would  be  brother  and  sister.  I  had  known  him  a 
long  time — from  a  little  child.  He  knew  Paul,  who  liked 
him  very  much  ;  Paul  said,  almost  at  the  last,  '  Take  care  of 
Walter,  dear  papa  !  I  was  fond  of  him  ! '  Walter  had  been 
brought  in  to  see  him,  and  was  there  then — in  this  room." 

"And  aid  he  take  care  of  Walter?"  inquired  Edith, 
sternly. 

"  Papa  ?  He  appointed  him  to  go  abroad.  He  was 
drowned  in  shipwreck  on  his  voyage,"  said  Florence,  sobbing. 

"  Does  he  know  that  he  is  dead  ? "  asked  Edith. 

"  I  can  not  tell,  mamma.  I  have  no  means  of  knowing. 
Dear  mamma  !  "  cried  Florence,  clinging  to  her  as  for  help, 
and  hiding  her  face  upon  her  bosom,  "  I  know  that  you  have 
seen — " 

"  Stay !  Stop,  Florence."  Edith  turned  so  pale,  and 
spoke  so  earnestly,  that  Florence  did  not  need  her  restrain- 
ing hand  upon  her  lips.  "Tell  me  all  about  Walter  flrst ; 
let  me  understand  this  history  all  through." 

Florence  related  it,  and  every  thing  belonging  to  it,  even 
down  to  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Toots,  of  whom  she  could 
hardly  speak  in  her  distress  without  a  tearful  smile,  although 
she  was  deeply  grateful  to  him.  When  she  had  concluded 
her  account,  to  the  whole  of  vdiich  Edith,  holding  her  hand, 
listened  with  close  attention,  and  when  a  silence  had  suc- 
ceeded, Edith  said  : 

"What  is  it  that  you  know  I  have  seen,  Florence  ? " 

"  That  I  am  not,"  said  Florence,  with  the  same  mute 
appeal,  and  the  same  quick  concealment  of  her  face  as 
before,  "  that  I  am  not  a  favorite  child,  mamma.  I  never 
have  been.  I  have  never  known  how  to  be.  I  have  missed 
the  way,  and  had  no  one  to  show  it  to  me.  Oh,  let  me  learn 
from  you  how  to  become  dearer  to  papa.  Teach  me  I  you 
who  can  so  well  !  "  and  clinging  closer  to  her,  with  some 
broken  fervent  words  of  gratitude  and  endearment,  Flor- 
ence, relieved  of  her  sad  secret,  wept  long,  but  not  as  pain- 


508  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fully  as  of  yore,   within  the  encircling   arms  of   her   new 
mother. 

Pale  even  to  her  lips,  and  with  a  face  that  strove  for  com- 
posure until  its  proud  beauty  was  as  fixed  as  death,  Edith 
looked  down  upon  the  weeping  girl,  and  once  kissed  her. 
Then  gradually  disengaging  herself,  and  putting  Florence 
away,  she  said,  stately,  and  quiet  as  a  marble  image,  and  in 
a  voice  that  deepened  as  she  spoke,  but  had  no  other  token 
of  emotion  in  it : 

**  Florence,  you  do  not  know  me  !  Heaven  forbid  that 
you  should  learn  from  me  !  " 

"  Not  learn  from  you  ?  "  repeated  Florence,  in  surprise. 

"  That  I  should  teach  you  how  to  love  or  be  loved, 
heaven  forbid  !  "  said  Edith.  "  If  you  could  teach  me,  that 
were  better  ;  but  it  is  too  late.  You  are  dear  to  me,  Flor- 
ence. I  did  not  think  that  any  thing  could  ever  be  so  dear 
to  me  as  you  are  in  this  little  time." 

She  saw  that  Florence  would  have  spoken  here,  so  checked 
her  with  her  hand,  and  went  on. 

"  I  will  be  your  true  friend  always.  I  will  cherish  you,  as 
much,  if  not  as  well  as  any  one  in  this  world  could.  You 
may  trust  in  me — I  know  it  and  I  say  it,  dear — with  the 
whole  confidence  even  of  your  pure  heart.  There  are  hosts 
of  women  whom  he  might  have  married,  better  and  truer  in 
all  other  respects  than  I  am,  Florence  ;  but  there  is  not  one 
who  could  come  here,  his  wife,  whose  heart  could  beat  with 
greater  truth  to  you  than  mine  does." 

"  I  know  it,  dear  mamma  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  From 
that  first  most  happy  day  I  have  known  it." 

"  Most  happy  day  !  "  Edith  seemed  to  repeat  the  words 
involuntarily,  and  went  on.  "  Though  the  merit  is  not  mine, 
for  I  thought  little  of  you  until  I  saw  you,  let  the  undeserved 
reward  be  mine  in  your  trust  and  love.  And  in  this — in 
this,  Florence  ;  on  the  first  night  of  my  taking  up  my  abode 
here  ;  I  am  led  on  as  it  is  best  I  should  be,  to  say  it  for  the 
first  and  last  time." 

Florence,  without  knowing  why,  felt  almost  afraid  to  hear 
her  proceed,  but  kept  her  eyes  riveted  on  the  beautiful  face 
so  fixed  upon  her  own. 

"  Never  seek  to  find  in  me,"  said  Edith,  laying  her  hand 
upon  her  breast,  "  what  is  not  here.  Never  if  you  can  help 
it,  Florence,  fall  off  from  me  because  it  is  nof  here.  Little 
by  little  you  will  know  me  better,  and  the  time  will  come 
when  you  will  know  me,  as  I  know  myself.     Then,  be  as  leni- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  509 

ent  to  me  as  you  can,  and  do  not  turn  to  bitterness  the  only 
sweet  remembrance  I  shall  have." 

The  tears  that  were  visible  in  her  eyes  as  she  kept  them 
fixed  on  Florence  showed  that  the  composed  face  was  but  as 
a  handsome  mask  ;  but  she  preserved  it,  and  continued  : 

"  I  have  seen  what  you  say,  and  know  how  true  it  is.  But 
believe  me — you  will  soon,  if  you  can  not  now — there  is  no 
one  on  this  earth  less  qualified  to  set  it  right  or  help  you, 
Florence,  than  I.  Never  ask  me  why,  or  speak  to  me  about 
it  or  of  my  husband,  more.  There  should  be,  so  far,  a  divi-  . 
sion,  and  a  silence  between  us  two,  like  the  grave  itself." 

She  sat  for  some  time  silent  ;  Florence  scarcely  venturing 
to  breathe  meanwhile,  as  dim  and  imperfect  shadows  of  the 
truth,  and  all  its  daily  consequences,  chased  each  other 
through  her  terrified  yet  incredulous  imagination.  Almost 
as  soon  as  she  had  ceased  to  speak,  Edith's  face  began  to 
subside  from  its  set  composure  to  that  quieter  and  more 
relenting  aspect,  which  it  usually  wore  when  she  and  Flor- 
ence were  alone  together.  She  shaded  it,  after  this  change, 
with  her  hands  ;  and  when  she  arose,  and  with  an  affectionate 
embrace  bade  Florence  good-night,  went  quickly,  and  with- 
out looking  round. 

But  when  Florence  was  in  bed,  and  the  room  was  dark 
except  for  the  glow  of  the  fire,  Edith  returned,  and  saying 
that  she  could  not  sleep,  and  that  her  dressing-room  was 
lonely,  drew  a  chair  upon  the  hearth,  and  watched  the  embers 
as  they  died  aw^ay.  Florence  watched  them  too  from  her 
bed,  until  they,  and  the  noble  figure  before  them,  crowned 
with  its  flowing  hair,  and  in  its  thoughtful  eyes  reflecting 
back  their  light,  became  confused  and  indistinct,  and  finally 
were  lost  in  slumber. 

In  her  sleep,  how^ever,  Florence  could  not  lose  an  unde- 
fined impression  of  what  had  so  recently  passed.  It  formed 
the  subject  of  her  dreams,  and  haunted  her  ;  now  in  one 
shape,  now  in  another  ;  but  always  oppressively,  and  with  a 
sense  of  fear.  She  dreamed  of  seeking  her  father  in  wilder- 
nesses, of  following  his  track  up  fearful  heights,  and  down 
into  deep  mines  and  caverns  ;  of  being  charged  with  some- 
thing that  would  release  him  from  extraordinary  suffering — 
she  knew  not  what,  or  why — yet  never  being  able  to  attain 
the  goal  and  set  him  free.  Then  she  saw  him  dead  upon 
that  very  bed,  and  in  that  very  room,  and  knew  that  he  had 
never  loved  her  to  the  last,  and  fell  upon  his  cold  breast, 
passionately  weeping.     Then  a  prospect  opened,  and  a  river 


510  DOMBKY  AND  SON. 

flowed  and  a  plaintive  voice  she  knew,  cried,  "  It  is  running 
on,  Floy  !  It  has  never  stopped  !  You  are  moving  with  it  !  " 
And  she  saw  him  at  a  distance  stretching  out  his  arms 
toward  her,  while  a  figure  such  as  V/alter's  used  to  be  stood 
near  him,  awfully  serene  and  still.  In  every  vision,  Edith 
came  and  went,  sometimes  to  her  joy,  sometimes  to  her 
sorrow,  until  they  were  alone  upon  the  brink  of  a  dark  grave, 
and  Edith  pointing  down,  she  looked  and  saw — what  ! — 
another  Edith  lying  at  the  bottom. 

In  the  terror  of  this  dream,  she  cried  out  and  awoke,  she 
thought.  A  soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  her  ear,  "  Flor- 
ence, dear  Florence,  it  is  nothing  but  a  dream  !  "  and  stretch- 
ing out  her  arms,  she  returned  the  caress  of  her  new  mamma, 
who  then  went  out  at  the  door  in  the  light  of  the  gray  morn- 
ing. In  a  moment,  Florence  sat  up  wondering  whether  this 
had  really  taken  place  or  not  ;  but  she  was  only  certain  that 
it  was  gray  morning  indeed,  and  that  the  blackened  ashes 
of  the  fire  were  on  the  hearth,  and  that  she  was  alone. 

So  passed  the  night  on  which  the  happy  pair  came  home. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

HOUSE-WARMING. 

Many  succeeding  days  passed  in  like  manner,  except  that 
there  were  numerous  visits  received  and  paid,  and  that  Mrs. 
Skewton  held  little  levees  in  her  own  apartments,  at  which 
Major  Bagstock  was  a  frequent  attendant,  and  that  Florence 
encountered  no  second  look  from  her  father,  although  she 
saw  him  every  day.  Nor  had  she  much  communication  in 
words  with  her  new  mamma,  who  was  imperious  and  proud 
to  all  the  house  but  her — Florence  could  not  but  observe 
that — and  who,  although  she  always  sent  for  her  or  went  to 
her  when  she  came  home  fronj  visiting,  and  would  always  go 
into  her  room  at  night,  before  retiring  to  rest,  however  late 
the  hour,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of  being  with  her, 
was  often  her  silent  and  thoughtful  companion  for  a  long 
time  together. 

Florence,  who  had  hoped  for  so  much  from  this  marriage, 
could  not  help  sometimes  comparing  the  bright  house  with 
the  faded,  dreary  place  out  of  which  it  had  arisen,  and  won- 
dering when,  in  any  shape,  it  would  begin  to  be  a  home  ;  for 
that  it  was  no  home   then   for  any  one,  though  every  thing 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  511 

went  on  luxuriously  and  regularly,  she  had  always  a  secret 
misgiving.     Many  an   hour   of    sorrowful   reflection  by  day 
and   night,   and   many  a  tear    of    blighted    hope,   Florence 
bestowed  upon  the  assurance  her  new  mamma  had  given  her 
so  strongly,  that  there  was  no  one  on   earth  more  powerless 
than  herself  to  teach  her  how  to  win  her  father's  heart.  And 
soon  Florence  began  to  think — resolved   to  think  would  be 
the  truer  phrase — that  as  no  one  knew  so  well,  how  hopeless 
of  being  subdued  or   changed   her  father's  coldness  to  her 
was,  so  she  had  given  her  this  warning   and  forbidden  the 
subject  in  very  compassion.     Unselfish  here,  as  in  her  every 
act  and  fancy,  Florence   preferred  to  bear  the  pain  of  this 
new  wound,  rather  than  encourage  any  faint  foreshadowings 
of  the  truth  as  it  concerned  her  father  ;  tender  of  him,  even 
in  her  wandering  thoughts.     As  for  his  home,  she  hoped  it 
would  become  a  better  one,  when   its   state   of  novelty  and 
transition  should  be  over  ;  and  for  herself,  thought  little  and 
lamented  less. 

If  none  of  the  new  family  were  particularly  at  home  in 
private,  it  was  resolved  that  Mrs.  Dombey  at  least  should  be 
at  home  in  public,  without  delay.  A  series  of  entertain- 
ments in  celebration  of  the  late  nuptials,  and  in  cultivation 
of  society,  were  arranged,  chiefly  by  Mr.  Dombey  and  Mrs. 
Skewton  ;  and  it  was  settled  that  the  festive  proceedings 
should  commence  by  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  at  home  upon  a 
certain  evening,  and  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey's  requesting 
the  honor  of  the  company  of  a  great  many  incongruous 
people  to  dinner  on  the  same  day. 

Accordingly,AIr.  Dombey  produced  a  list  of  sundry  east- 
ern magnates  who  were  to  be  bidden  to  this  feast  on  his 
behalf  ;  to  which  Mrs.  Skewton,  acting  for  her  dearest  child, 
who  was  haughtily  careless  on  the  subject,  subjoined  a  west- 
ern list,  comprising  Cousin  Feenix,  not  yet  returned  to 
Baden-Baden,  greatly  to  the  detriment  of  his  personal 
estate  ;  and  a  variety  of  moths  of  various  degrees  and  ages, 
who  had,  at  various  times,  fluttered  round  the  light  of  her 
fair  daughter,  or  herself,  without  any  lasting  injury  to  their 
wings.  Florence  v.-as  enrolled  as  a  member  of  the  dinner- 
party, by  Edith's  command — elicited  by  a  moment's  doubt  and 
hesitation  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  and  Florence,  with 
a  wondering  heart,  and  with  a  quick,  instinctive  sense  of 
every  thing  that  grated  on  her  father  in  the  least,  took  her 
silent  share  in  the  proceedings  of  the  day. 

The  proceedings  commenced  by  Mr.  ]3ombey,  in  a  cravat 


512  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  extraordinary  height  and  stiffness,  walking  restlessly  about 
the  drawing-room  until  the  hour  appointed  for  dinner  ;  punc- 
tual to  which,  an  East  India  director,  of  immense  wealth, 
in  a  waistcoat  apparently  constructed  in  serviceable  deal  by 
some  plain  carpenter,  but  really  engendered  in  the  tailor's 
art,  and  composed  of  the  material  called  nankeen,  arrived 
and  was  received  by  Mr.  Dombey  alone.  The  next  stage  of 
the  proceedings  was  Mr.  Dombey's  sending  his  compliments 
to  Mrs.  Dombey,  with  a  correct  statement  of  the  time  ;  and 
the  next,  the  East  India  director's  falling  prostrate,  in  a  con- 
versational point  of  view,  and  as  Mr.  Dombey  was  not  the 
man  to  pick  him  up,  staring  at  the  fire  until  rescue  appeared 
in  the  person  of  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  whom  the  director,  as  a 
pleasant  start  in  life  for  the  evening,  mistook  for  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey, and  greeted  with  enthusiasm. 

The  next  arrival  was  a  bank  director,  reputed  to  be  able 
to  buy  up  any  thing — human  nature  generally,  if  he  should 
take  it  in  his  head  to  influence  the  money  market  in  that 
direction — but  who  was  a  wonderfully  modest-spoken  man, 
almost  boastfully  so,  and  mentioned  his  ''  little  place  "  at 
Kingston-upon-Thames,  and  its  just  being  barely  equal  to 
giving  Dombey  a  bed  and  a  chop,  if  he  would  come  and 
visit  it.  Ladies,  he  said,  it  was  not  for  a  man  who  lived  in  his 
quiet  way  to  take  upon  himself  to  invite — but  if  Mrs.  Skev/ton 
and  her  daughter,  Mrs.  Dombey,  should  ever  find  them- 
selves in  that  direction,  and  would  do  him  the  honor  to  look 
at  a  little  bit  of  a  shrubbery  they  would  find  there,  and  a 
poor  little  flower-bed  or  so,  and  a  humble  apology  for  a 
pinery,  and  two  or  three  little  attempts  of  that  sort  without 
any  pretension,  they  would  distinguish  him  very  much. 
Carrying  out  his  character,  this  gentleman  was  very  plainly 
dressed,  in  a  wisp  of  cambric  for  a  neckcloth,  big  shoes,  a 
coat  that  was  too  loose  for  him,  and  a  pair  of  trowsers  that 
were  too  spare  ;  and  mention  being  made  of  the  opera  by 
Mrs.  Skewton,  he  said  he  very  seldom  went  there,  for  he 
couldn't  afford  it.  It  seemed  greatly  to  delight  and  exhila- 
rate him  to  say  so  ;  and  he  beamed  on  his  audience  after- 
ward, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  excessive  satisfac- 
tion twinkling  in  his  eyes. 

Now  Mrs.  Dombey  appeared,  beautiful  and  proud,  and  as 
disdainful  and  defiant  of  them  all  as  if  the  bridal  wreath 
upon  her  head  had  been  a  garland  of  steel  pikes  put  on  to 
force  concession  from  her  which  she  would  die  sooner  than 
yield.     With  her  was  Florence.  When  they  entered  together, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  513 

the  shadow  of  the  night  of  the  return  again  darkened  Mr. 
Dombey's  face.  But  unobserved  ;  for  Florence  did  not  ven- 
ture to  raise  her  eyes  to  his,  and  Edith's  indifference  was  too 
supreme  to  take  the  least  heed  of  him. 

The  arrivals  quickly  became  numerous.  More  directors, 
chairmen  of  public  companies,  elderly  ladies  carrying  bur- 
dens on  their  heads  for  full  dress,  Cousin  Feenix,  Major 
Bagstock,  friends  of  Mrs.  Skewton,  with  the  same  bright 
bloom  on  their  complexion,  and  very  precious  necklaces  on 
very  withered  necks.  Among  these,  a  young  lady  of  sixty- 
five,  remarkably  coolly  dressed  as  to  her  back  and  shoulders, 
who  spoke  with  an  engaging  lisp,  and  whose  eyelids  wouldn't 
keep  up  well  without  a  great  deal  of  trouble  on  her  part, 
and  whose  manners  had  that  indefinable  charm  which  so 
frequently  attaches  to  the  giddiness  of  youth.  As  the  greater 
part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be  taciturn,  and 
the  greater  part  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  were  disposed  to  be 
talkative,  and  there  was  no  sympathy  between  them,  Mrs. 
Dombey's  list,  by  magnetic  agreement,  entered  into  a  bond 
of  union  against  Mr.  Dombey's  list,  who,  wandering  about 
the  rooms  in  a  desolate  manner,  or  seeking  refuge  in  corners, 
entangled  themselves  with  company  coming  in,  and  became 
barricaded  behind  sofas,  and  had  doors  open  smartly  from 
without  against  their  heads,  and  underwent  every  sort  of  dis- 
comfiture. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  Mr.  Dombey  took  down  an 
old  lady  like  a  crimson  velvet  pincushion  stuffed  with  bank- 
notes, who  might  have  been  the  identical  old  lady  of  Thread- 
needle  Street,  she  was  so  rich,  and  looked  so  unaccommodat- 
ing ;  Cousin  Feenix  took  down  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  Major  Bag- 
stock  took  down  Mrs.  Skewton  ;  the  young  thing  with  the 
shoulders  was  bestowed,  as  an  extinguisher,  upon  the  East 
India  director  ;  and  the  remaining  ladies  were  left  on  view 
in  the  drawing-room  by  the  remaining  gentlemen,  until  a  for- 
lorn hope  volunteered  to  conduct  them  down  stairs,  and 
those  brave  spirits  with  their  captives  blocked  up  the  dining- 
room  door,  shutting  out  seven  mild  men  in  the  stony-hearted 
hall.  When  all  the  rest  were  got  in  and  were  seated,  one  of 
these  mild  men  still  appeared,  in  smiling  confusion,  totally 
destitute  and  unprovided  for,  and,  escorted  by  the  butler, 
made  the  comiplete  circuit  of  the  table  twice  before  his 
chair  could  be  found,  which  it  finally  was,  on  Mrs.  Dombey's 
left  hand  ;  after  which  the  mild  man  never  held  up  his  head 
again. 


514  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

Now,  the  spacious  dining-room,  with  the  company  seated 
round  the  glittering  table,  busy  with  their  glittering  spoons, 
and  knives  and  forks,  and  plates,  might  have  been  taken  for 
a  grown-up  exposition  of  Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  where 
children  pick  up  gold  and  silver.  Mr.  Dombey,  as  Tiddler, 
looked  his  character  to  admiration  ;  and  the  long  plateau  of 
precious  metal  frosted,  separating  him  from  Mrs.  Dombey, 
whereon  frosted  cupids  offered  scentless  flowers  to  each  of 
them,  was  allegorical  to  see. 

Cousin  Feenix  was  in  great  force,  and  looked  astonishingly 
young.  But  he  was  sometimes  thoughtless  in  his  good-humor 
— his  memory  occasionally  wandering  like  his  legs — and  on 
this  occasion  caused  the  company  to  shudder.  It  happened 
thus.  The  young  lady  with  the  back,  who  regarded  Cousin 
Feenix  with  sentiments  of  tenderness,  had  entrapped  the 
East  India  director  into  leading  her  to  the  chair  next  him  ; 
in  return  for  which  good  office,  she  immediately  abandoned 
the  director,  who,  being  shaded  on  the  other  side  by  a  gloomy 
black  velvet  hat  surmounting  a  bony  and  speechless  female 
with  a  fan,  yielded  to  a  depression  of  spirits  and  withdrew 
into  himself.  Cousin  Feenix  and  the  young  lady  were  very 
lively  and  humorous,  and  the  young  lady  laughed  so  much 
at  something  Cousin  Feenix  related  to  her,  that  Major  Bag- 
stock  begged  leave  to  inquire  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Skewton 
(they  were  sitting  opposite,  a  little  lower  down),  whether  that 
might  not  be  considered  public  property. 

"  Why,  upon  my  life,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  there's  noth- 
ing in  it  ;  it  really  is  not  worth  repeating  ;  in  point  of  fact, 
it's  merely  an  anecdote  of  Jack  Adams.  I  dare  say  my 
friend  Dombey  ;  "  for  the  general  attention  was  concen- 
trated on  Cousin  Feenix  ;  "  may  remember  Jack  Adams, 
Jack  Adams — not  Joe  ;  that  was  his  brother.  Jack — little 
Jack — man  with  a  cast  in  his  eye,  and  slight  impediment  in 
his  speech — man  who  sat  for  somebody's  borough.  We 
used  to  call  him  in  my  parliamentary  time  W,  P.  Adams,  in 
consequence  of  his  being  warming-pan  for  a  young  fellow 
who  was  in  his  minority.  Perhaps  my  friend  Dombey  may 
have  known  the  man  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  as  likely  to  have  known  Guy 
Fawkes,  replied  in  the  negative.  But  one  of  the  seven  mild 
men  unexpectedly  leaped  into  distinction,  by  saying 
^e  had  known  him,  and  adding — "  always  wore  Hessian 
boots  !  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  bending  forward  to  see 


DOiVIBEY  AND  SON.  515 


the  nild  niaii,  and   smile    encouragement   at  him   down  the 
table.     "  That  was  Jack.     Joe  wore — " 

"  Tcps  !  "  cried  the  mild  man,  rising  in  public  estimation 
every  instant. 

**  (9/ course,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "you  were  intimate 
with  'em  ?  " 

"  I  knew  them  both,"  said  the  mild  m.an.  With  whom 
Mr.   Dombey  immediately  took  wine. 

"  Devilish  good  fellow,  Jack  !  "  said  Cousin  Feenix,  again 
bending  forward,  and  smiling. 

"  Excellent,"  returned  the  mild  man,  becoming  bold  on 
his  success.     ''  One  of  the  best  fellows  1  ever  knew." 

"  No  doubt  you  have  heard  the  story  ? "  said  Cousin 
Feenix. 

"I  shall  know,"  replied  the  bold  mild  man,  "  when  I 
have  heard  your  ludship  tell  it."  With  that,  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  and  smiled  at  the  ceiling,  as  knowing  it  by  heart, 
and  being  already  tickled. 

"  In  point  of  fact,  it's  nothing  of  a  story  in  itself,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix,  addressing  the  table  with  a  smile,  and  a  gay 
shake  of  his  head,  *'  and  not  worth  a  word  of  preface.  But 
it's  illustrative  of  the  neatness  of  Jack's  humor.  The  fact 
is,  that  Jack  was  invited  down  to  a  marriage — which  I  think 
took  place  in  Barkshire  ?  " 

"  Shropshire,"  said  the  bold  mild  man,  finding  himself 
appealed  to. 

"  Was  it  ?  Well  !  In  point  of  fact  it  might  have  been  in 
any  shire,"  said  Cousin  Feenix.  '*  So  my  friend  being  invited 
down  to  this  marriage  in  Anyshire,''  with  a  pleasant  sense  of 
the  readiness  of  this  joke,  "  goes.  Just  as  some  of  us,  hav- 
ing had  the  honor  of  being  invited  to  the  marriage  of  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative  with  my  friend  Dombey, 
didn't  require  to  be  asked  twice,  and  were  devilish  glad  to 
be  present  on  so  interesting  an  occasion. — Goes — Jack  goes. 
Now,  this  marriage  was,  in  point  of  fact,  the  marriage  of  an 
uncommonly  fine  girl  with  a  man  for  whom  she  didn't  care 
a  button,  but  whom  she  accepted  on  account  of  his  property, 
which  vwas  immense.  When  Jack  returned  to  town,  after 
the  nuptials,  a  man  he  knew,  meeting  him  in  the  lobby  of 
the  House  of  Commons,  says,  '  Well,  Jack,  how  are  the  ill- 
matched  couple  !  '  '  Ill-matched,'  says  Jack.  *  Not  at  all. 
It's  a  perfectly  fair  and  equal  transaction.  S/ie  is  regularly 
bought,  and  you  may  take  your  oath  Ae  is  as  regularly 
sold  ! '  " 


5i6  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

In  his  full  enjoyment  of  this  culminating  point  of  his  story, 
the  shudder,  which  had  gone  all  round  the  table  like  an 
electric  spark,  struck  Cousin  Feenix,  and  he  stopped.  Not 
a  smile  occasioned  by  the  only  general  topic  of  conversa- 
tion broached  that  day  appeared  on  any  face.  A  profound 
silence  ensued  ;  and  the  wretched  mild  man,  who  had  been 
as  innocent  of  any  real  foreknowledge  of  the  story  as  the 
child  unborn,  had  the  exquisite  misery  of  reading  in  every 
eye  that  he  was  regarded  as  the  prime  mover  of  the  mis- 
chief. 

Mr.  Dombey's  face  was  not  a  changeful  one,  and  being 
cast  in  its  mold  of  state  that  day,  showed  little  other  appre- 
hension of  the  story,  if  any,  than  that  which  he  expressed 
when  he  said  solemnly,  amid  the  silence,  that  it  was  "  very 
good."  There  was  a  rapid  glance  from  Edith  toward  Flor- 
ence, but  otherwise  she  remained,  externally,  impassive  and 
unconscious. 

Through  the  various  stages  of  rich  meats  and  wines,  con- 
tinual gold  and  silver,  dainties  of  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water, 
heaped-up  fruits,  and  that  unnecessary  article  in  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's banquets — ice — the  dinner  slowly  made  its  way  :  the 
stages  being  achieved  to  the  sonorous  music  of  incessant 
double  knocks,  announcing  the  arrival  of  visitors,  whose 
portion  of  the  feast  was  limited  to  the  smell  thereof.  When 
Mrs.  Dombey  rose,  it  was  a  sight  to  see  her  lord,  with  stiff 
throat  and  erect  head,  hold  the  door  open  for  the  withdrawal 
of  the  ladies  ;  and  to  see  how  she  swept  past  him  with  his 
daughter  on  her  arm. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  a  grave  sight,  behind  the  decanters,  in 
a  state  of  dignity  ;  and  the  East  India  director  was  a  for- 
lorn sight  near  the  unoccupied  end  of  the  table,  in  a  state  of 
solitude  ;  and  the  major  was  a  military  sight,  relating  stories 
of  the  Duke  of  York  to  six  of  the  seven  mild  men  (the  ambi- 
tious one  was  utterly  quenched)  ;  and  the  bank  director 
was  a  lowly  sight,  making  a  plan  of  his  little  attempt  at  a 
pinery,  with  dessert-knives,  for  a  group  of  admirers  ;  and 
Cousin  Feenix  was  a  thoughtful  sight,  as  he  smoothed  his 
long  wristbands  and  stealthily  adjusted  his  wig.  But  all 
these  sights  were  of  short  duration,  being  speedily  broken  up 
by  coffee,  and  the  desertion  of  the  room. 

There  was  a  throng  in  the  state-rooms  up-stairs,  increasing 
every  minute  ;  but  still  Mr.  Dombey'slist  of  visitors  appeared 
to  have  some  native  impossibility  of  amalgamation  with  Mrs, 
Dombey's  list,   and   no  one  could  have  doubted  which  was 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S^? 

which.  The  single  exception  to  this  rule,  perhaps,  was  Mr. 
Carker,  who  now  smiled  among  the  company,  and  who,  as 
he  stood  in  the  circle  that  was  gathered  about  Mrs.  Dombey 
— watchful  of  her,  of  them,  his  chief,  Cleopatra  and  the 
ma}or,  Florence,  and  every  thing  around — appeared  at  ease 
with  both  divisions  of  guests,  and  not  marked  as  exclusively 
belonging  to  either. 

Florence  had  a  dread  of  him,  which  made  his  presence  in 
the  room  a  nightmare  to  her.  She  could  not  avoid  the  rec- 
ollection of  it,  for  her  eyes  were  drawn  toward  him  every 
now  and  then  by  an  attraction  of  dislike  and  distrust  that 
she  could  not  resist.  Yet  her  thoughts  were  busy  with  other 
things  ;  for  as  she  sat  apart — not  unadmired  or  unsought, 
but  in  the  gentleness  of  her  quiet  spirit — she  felt  how  little 
part  her  father  had  in  wha.t  was  going  on,  and  saw,  with  pain, 
how  ill  at  ease  he  seemed  to  be,  and  how  little  regarded  he 
was  as  he  lingered  about  near  the  door,  for  those  visitors 
whom  he  wished  to  distinguish  with  particular  attention,  and 
took  them  up  to  introduce  them  to  his  wife,  who  received 
them  with  proud  coldness,  but  showed  no  interest  or  wish 
to  please,  and  never,  after  the  bare  ceremony  of  reception, 
in  consultation  of  his  wishes,  or  in  welcome  of  his  friends, 
opened  her  lips.  It  was  not  the  less  perplexing  or  painful  to 
Florence,  that  she  who  acted  thus  treated  her  so  kindly  and 
with  such  loving  consideration,  that  it  almost  seemed  an 
ungrateful  return  on  her  part  even  to  know  of  what  was  pass- 
ing before  her  eyes. 

Happy  Florence  would  have  been,  might  she  have  ven- 
tured to  bear  her  father  company  by  so  much  as  a  look  ; 
and  happy  Florence  was,  in  little  suspecting  the  main 
cause  of  his  uneasiness.  But  afraid  of  seeming  to  know 
that  he  was  placed  at  any  disadvantage,  lest  he  should  be 
resentful  of  that  knowledge  ;  and  divided  between  her 
impulse  toward  him,  and  her  grateful  affection  for  Edith  ; 
she  scarcely  dared  to  raise  her  eyes  toward  either.  Anx- 
ious and  unhappy  for  them  both,  the  thought  stole  on 
her  through  the  crowd,  that  it  might  have  been  better  for 
them  if  this  noise  of  tongues  and  tread  of  feet  had  never 
come  there — if  the  old  dullness  and  decay  had  never  been 
replaced  by  novelty  and  splendor—  if  the  neglected  child 
had  found  no  friend  in  Edith,  but  had  lived  her  solitary 
life,  unpitied  and  forgotten. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  some  such  thoughts  too,  but  they  were  not 
so  quietly  developed   in  her  mind.     This  good  matron  had 


5i8  ■  DOMBfiY   AND   SON. 

been  outraged  in  the  first  instance  by  not  receiving  an  invi- 
tation to  dinner.  That  blow  partially  recovered,  she  had 
gone  to  a  vast  expense  to  make  such  a  figure  before  Mrs. 
Dombey  at  home  as  should  dazzle  the  sense  of  that  lady, 
and  heap  mortification,  mountain  high,  on  the  head  of  Mrs, 
Skewton. 

"  But  I  am  made,"  said  Mrs.  Chick  to  Mr.  Chick,  "  of  no 
more  account  than  Florence  !  Who  takes  the  smallest  no- 
tice of  me  ?   No  one  !  " 

"  No  one,  my  dear,"  assented  Mr.  Chick,  who  was  seated 
by  the  side  of  Mrs.  Chick  against  the  wall,  and  could  con- 
sole himself,  even  there,  by  softly  whistling. 

"  Does  it  at  all  appear  as  if  I  was  wanted  here  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Chick,  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Mr.  Chick. 

"  Paul's  mad  !  "  said  Mrs.  Chick. 

Mr.  Chick  whistled. 

*'  Unless  you  are  a  monster,  which  I  sometimes  think  you 
are,"  said  Mrs.  Chick,  with  candor,  "  don't  sit  there  hum- 
ming tunes.  How  any  one  with  the  most  distant  feelings  of 
a  man  can  see  that  mother-in-law  of  Paul's,  dressed  as  she 
is,  going  on  like  that  with  Major  Bagstock,  for  whom  among 
other  precious  things,  we  are  indebted  to  your  Lucretia 
Tox— " 

"  My  Lucretia  Tox,  my  dear  !  "  said  Mr.  Chick,  astounded. 

"Yes,"  retorted  Mrs.  Chick,  with  great  severity, '*_;w/r 
Lucretia  Tox — I  say  how  any  body  can  see  that  mother-in- 
law  of  Paul's,  and  that  haughty  wife  of  Paul's,  and  these 
indecent  old  frights  with  their  backs  and  shoulders,  and  in 
short  this  at  home  generally,  and  hum — ,"  on  which  word 
Mrs.  Chick  laid  a  scornful  emphasis  that  made  Mr.  Chick 
start,  "  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  a  mystery  to  me  ! " 

Mr.  Chick  screwed  his  mouth  into  a  form  irreconcilable 
with  humming  or  whistling,  and  looked  very  contemplative. 

"  But  I  hope  I  know  what  is  due  to  myself,"  said  Mrs. 
Chick,  swelling  with  indignation,  "  though  Paul  has  forgotten 
what  is  due  to  me.  I  am  not  going  to  sit  here,  a  member  of 
this  family,  to  be  taken  no  notice  of.  I  am  not  the  dirt  under 
Mrs.  Dombey's  feet,  yet — not  quite  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Chick, 
as  if  she  expected  to  become  so  about  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. "  And  I  shall  go.  I  will  not  say  (whatever  I  may 
think)  that  this  affair  has  been  got  up  solely  to  degrade  and 
insult  me.     I  shall  merely  go.      I  shall  not  be  missed  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  arose  erect  with  these  words,  and   took  the 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.      -  519 

arm  of  Mr.  Chick,  who  escorted  her  from  the  room,  after 
half  an  hour's  shady  sojourn  there.  And  it  is  due  to  her 
penetration  to  observe  that  she  certainly  was  not  missed  at  all. 

But  she  was  not  the  only  indignant  guest  ;  for  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  list  (still  constantly  in  difficulties)  were,  as  a  body, 
indignant  with  Mrs.  Dombey's  list,  for  looking  at  them 
through  eye-glasses,  and  audibly  wondering  who  all  those 
people  were  ;  while  Mrs.  Dombey's  list  complained  of  weari- 
ness, and  the  young  thing  with  the  shoulders,  deprived  of 
the  attentions  of  that  gay  youth  Cousin  Feenix  (who  went 
away  from  the  dinner  table),  confidentially  alleged  to  thirty 
or  forty  friends  that  she  was  bored  to  death.  All  the  old 
ladies  with  the  burdens  on  their  heads  had  greater  or  less 
cause  of  complaint  against  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  the  directors 
and  chairmen  coincided  in  thinking  that  if  Dombey  must 
marry,  he  had  better  have  married  somebody  nearer  his  own 
age,  not  quite  so  handsome,  and  a  little  better  off.  The 
general  opinion  among  this  class  of  gentlemen  was,  that  it 
was  a  weak  thing  in  Dombey,  and  he'd  live  to  repent  it. 
Hardly  any  body  there,  except  the  mild  men,  staid,  or  went 
away,  without  considering  himself  or  herself  neglected  and 
aggrieved  by  Mr.  Dombey  or  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  the  speech- 
less female  in  the  black  velvet  hat  was  found  to  have  been 
stricken  mute,  because  the  lady  in  the  crimson  velvet  had 
been  handed  down  before  her.  The  nature  even  of  the  mild 
men  got  corrupted,  either  from  their  curdling  it  with  too 
much  lemonade,  or  from  the  general  inoculation  that  pre- 
vailed ;  and  they  made  sarcastic  jokes  to  one  another,  and 
whispered  disparagement  on  stairs  and  in  by-places.  The 
general  dissatisfaction  and  discomfort  so  diffused  itself,  that 
the  assembled  footmen  in  the  hall  were  as  well  acquainted 
with  it  as  as  the  company  above.  Nay,  the  very  linkmen 
outside  got  hold  of  it,  and  compared  the  party  to  a  funeral 
out  of  mourning,  with  none  of  the  company  remembered  in 
the  will. 

At  last  the  guests  were  all  gone,  and  the  linkmen  too  ;  and 
the  street,  crowded  so  long  with  carriages,  was  clear  ;  and 
the  dying  lights  showed  no  one  in  the  rooms  but  Mr.  Dom- 
bey and  Mr.  Carker,  who  were  talking  together  apart,  and 
Mrs.  Dombey  and  her  mother  :  the  former  seated  on  an 
ottoman  ;  the  latter  reclining  in  the  Cleopatra  attitude, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  her  maid.  Mr.  Dombey  having 
finished  his  communication  to  Carker,  the  latter  advanced 
obsequiously  to  take  leave. 


520  -  '     DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  I  trust,"  he  said,  ''  that  the  fatigues  of  this  delightful 
evening  will  not  inconvenience  Mrs.  Dombey  to-mor- 
row." 

"Mrs.  Dombey"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  advancing,  ''has 
sufficiently  spared  herself  fatigue,  to  relieve  you  from  any 
anxiety  of  that  kind.  I  regret  to  say,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I 
could  have  wished  you  had  fatigued  yourself  a  little  more 
on  this  occasion." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  supercilious  glance  that  it 
seemed  not  worth  her  while  to  protract,  and  turned  away 
her  eyes  without  speaking. 

"  I  am  sorry,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  you  should 
not  have  thought  it  your  duty — " 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  Your  duty,  madam,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  have 
received  my  friends  with  a  little  more  deference.  Some  of 
those  whom  you  have  been  pleased  to  slight  to-night  in  a 
very  marked  manner,  Mrs.  Dombey,  confer  a  distinction 
upon  you,  I  must  tell  you,  in  any  visit  they  pay  to 
you." 

"  Do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here  ? "  she 
returned,  now  looking  at  him  steadily. 

"  No  !  Carker  !  I  beg  that  you  do  not.  I  insist  that  you 
do  not,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  stopping  that  noiseless  gentle- 
man in  his  withdrawal.  "  Mr.  Carker,  madam,  as  you  know, 
possesses  my  confidence.  He  is  as  well  acquainted  as 
myself  with  the  subject  on  which  I  speak.  I  beg  to  tell  yon, 
for  your  information,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  consider  these 
wealthy  and  important  persons  confer  a  distinction  upon 
me,"  and  Mr.  Dombey  drew  himself  up,  as  having  now  ren- 
dered them  of  the  highest  possible  importance. 

"I  ask  you,  she  repeated,"  bending  her  disdainful,  steady 
gaze  upon  him,  "  do  you  know  that  there  is  some  one  here, 
sir?" 

"I  must  entreat,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  stepping  forward,  "  I 
must  beg,  I  must  demand,  to  be  released.  Slight  and  unim- 
portant as  this  difference  is — " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  who  had  been  intent  upon  her  daughter's 
face,  took  him  up  here. 

"  My  sweetest  Edith,"  she  said,  "and  my  dearest  Dom- 
bey ;  our  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Carker,  for  so  I  am  sure  I 
ought  to  mention  him — " 

Mr.  Carker  murmured,  "  Too  much  honor  " 

*' — Has  used  the  very  words  that  were  in   my  mind,  and 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  521 

that  I  have  been  dying,  these  ages,  for  an  opportunity  of 
introducing.  SHght  and  unimportant  !  My  sweetest  Edith, 
and  my  dearest  Dombey,  do  we  not  know  that  any  differ- 
ence between  you  two —  No,  Flowers  ;  not  now." 

Flowers  was  the  maid,  who,  finding  gentlemen  present, 
retreated  with  precipitation. 

"  That  any  difference  between  you  two,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Skewton,  "  with  the  heart  you  possess  in  common,  and  the 
excessively  charming  bond  of  feeling  that  there  is  between 
you,  must  be  slight  and  unimportant  ?  What  word?  could 
better  define  the  fact  ?  None.  Therefore  I  am  glad  to  take 
this  slight  occassion — this  trifling  occasion,  that  is  so  replete 
with  nature,  and  your  individual  character,  and  all  that — so 
truly  calculated  to  bring  the  tears  into  a  parent's  eyes — to 
say  that  I  attach  no  importance  to  them  in  the  least,  except 
as  developing  those  minor  elements  of  soul  ;  and  that, 
unlike  most  mammas-in-law  (that  odious  phrase,  dear  Dom- 
bey !  ),  as  they  have  been  represented  to  me  to  exist  in  this  I 
fear  too  artificial  world,  I  never  can  much  regret,  after  all, 
such  little  flashes  of  the  torch  of  What's-his-name — not 
Cupid,  but  the  other  deUghtful  creature." 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  the  good  mother's  glance  at  both 
her  children  as  she  spoke,  that  may  have  been  expressive  of 
a  direct  and  well-considered  purpose  hidden  between  these 
rambling  words.  That  purpose,  providently  to  detach  her- 
self in  the  beginning  from  all  the  clankings  of  their  chain 
that  were  to  come,  and  to  shelter  herself  with  the  fiction  of 
her  innocent  belief  in  their  mutual  affection,  and  their  adapt- 
ation to  each  other. 

"  I  have  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
in  his  most  stately  manner,  "  that  in  her  conduct  thus 
early  in  our  married  life,  to  which  I  object,  and  which  I 
request,  may  be  corrected.  Carker,"  with  a  nod  of  dismissal, 
''  good-night  to  you  !  " 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  to  the  imperious  form  of  the  bride, 
whose  sparkling  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  husband  ;  and  stop- 
ping at  Cleopatra's  couch  on  his  way  out,  raised  to  his  lips 
the  hand  she  graciously  extended  to  him,  in  lowly  and 
admiring  homage. 

If  his  handsome  wife  had  approached  him,  or  even 
changed  countenance,  or  broken  the  silence  in  which 
she  remained,  by  one  word,  now  that  they  were  alone  (for 
Cleopatra  made  off  with  all  speed),  Mr.  Dombey  would  have 
been  equal  to  some  assertion  of  his  case  against  her.     But 


522  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  intense,  unutterable,  withering  scorn,  with  which,  after 
looking  upon  him,  she  dropped  her  eyes,  as  if  he  were  too 
worthless,  and  indifferent  to  her  to  be  challenged  with  a 
syllable — the  ineffable  disdain  and  haughtiness  in  which  she 
sat  before  him — the  cold  inflexible  resolve  with  which  her 
every  feature  seemed  to  bear  him  down,  and  put  him  by — 
these,  he  had  no  resource  against  ;  and  he  left  her,  with 
her  whole  overbearing  beauty  concentrated  on  despising 
him. 

Was  he  coward  enough  to  watch  her,  an  hour  afterward, 
on  the  old  well  staircase,  where  he  had  once  seen  Flor- 
ence in  the  moonlight,  toiling  up  with  Paul  !  Or  was  he  in 
the  dark  by  accident,  when  looking  up,  he  saw  her  coming, 
with  a  light,  from  the  room  where  Florence  lay,  and  marked 
again  the  face  so  changed,  which  he  could  not  sub- 
due ? 

But  it  could  never  alter  as  his  own  did.  It  never,  in  its 
utmost  pride  and  passion,  knew  the  shadow  that  had 
fallen  on  his,  in  the  dark  corner,  on  the  night  of  return;  and 
often  since  ;  and  which  deepened  on  it  now  as  he  looked  up. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

MORE   WARNINGS  THAN  ONE. 

Florence,  Edith,  and  Mrs.  Skewton  were  together  next 
day,  and  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the  door  to  take  them 
out.  For  Cleopatra  had  her  galley  again  now,  and  Withers, 
no  longer  the  wan,  stood  upright  in  a  pigeon  breasted  jacket 
and  military  trowsers,  behind  her  wheelless  chair  at  dinner- 
time, and  butted  no  more.  The  hair  of  Withers  was  radiant 
with  pomatum,  in  these  days  of  down,  and  he  wore  kid 
gloves  and  smelled  of  the  water  of  Cologne. 

They  were  assembled  in  Cleopatra's  room.  The  Serpent 
of  old  Nile  (not  to  mention  her  disrespectfully)  was  reposing 
on  her  sofa,  sipping  her  morning  chocolate  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,,  and  Flowers  the  maid  was  fastening  on  her 
youthful  cuffs  and  frills,  and  performing  a  kind  of  private 
coronation  ceremony  on  her,  with  a  peach-colored  velvet 
bonnet  \  the  artificial  roses  in  which  nodded  to  uncom- 
mon   advantage,  as  the    palsy    trifled    with    them,    like    a 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  523 

"  I  think  I  am  a  little  nervous  this  morning,  Flowers," 
said  Mrs.  Skewton.     "  My  hand  quite  shakes." 

"  You  were  the  life  of  the  party  last  night,  ma'am,  you 
know,"  returned  Flowers,  "  and  you  suffer  for  it  to-day, 
you  see." 

Edith,  who  had  beckoned  Florence  to  the  window,  and 
was  looking  out,  with  her  back  turned  on  the  toilet  of  her 
esteemed  mother,  suddenly  withdrew  from  it,  as  if  it  had 
lightened. 

"  My  darling  child,"  cried  Cleopatra,  languidly,  ''jou  are 
not  nervous  ?  Don't  tell  me,  my  dear  Edith,  that  you,  so 
enviably  self-possessed,  are  beginning  to  be  a  martyr  too, 
like  your  unfortunately  coristituted  mother  !  Withers,  some 
one  at  the  door." 

"  Card,  ma'am,  "  said  Withers,  taking  it  toward  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

*'  I  am  going  out,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  it. 

"  My  dear  love,"  drawled  i\Irs.  Skewton,  ''  how  very  odd 
to  send  that  message  without  seeing  the  name  I  Bring  it 
here.  Withers.  Dear  me,  my  love  ;  Mr.  Carker,  too  !  That 
very  sensible  person  !  " 

"  I  am  going  out,"  repeated  Edith  in  so  imperious  a  tone 
that  Withers,  going  to  the  door,  imperiously  informed  the 
servant  who  was  waiting,  "  Mrs.  Dombey  is  going  out.  Get 
along  with  you,"  and  shut  it  on  him. 

But  the  servant  came  back  after  a  short  absence,  and 
whispered  to  Withers  again,  who  once  more,  and  not  very 
willingly,  presented  himself  before  Mrs.  D.ombey. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  Mr.  Carker  sends  his  respectful 
compliments,  and  begs  you  would  spare  him  one  minute,  if 
you  could — for  business,  ma'am,  if  you  please." 

"  Really,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  in  her  mild- 
est manner  ;  for  her  daughter's  face  was  threatening  ; 
"  if  you  would  allow  me  to  offer  a  word,  I  should  recom- 
mend— " 

*'  Show  him  this  way,"  said  Edith.  As  Withers  disappeared 
to  execute  the  command,  she  added,  frowning  on  her  mother, 
"  As  he  comes  at  your  recommendation,  let  him  come  to 
your  room." 

*'  May  I — shall  I  go  away  ?  "  asked  Florence,  hur- 
riedly. 

Edith  nodded  yes,  but  on  her  way  to  the  door  Florence  met 
the  visitor  coming  in.  With  the  same  disagreeable  mixture 
of  familiarity    and    forbearance    with   which   he    had    first 


524  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

addressed  her,  he  addressed  her  now  in  his  softest  man- 
ner— hoped  she  was  quite  well — needed  not  to  ask,  with 
such  looks  to  anticipate  the  answer — had  scarcely  had  the 
honor  to  know  her,  last  night,  she  was  so  greatly  changed — 
and  held  the  door  open  for  her  to  pass  out  ;  with  a  secret 
sense  of  power  in  her  shrinking  from  him,  that  all  the 
deference  and  politeness  of  his  manner  could  not  quite  con- 
ceal. 

He  then  bowed  himself  for  a  moment  over  Mrs.  Skewton's 
condescending  hand,  and  lastly  bowed  to  Edith.  Coldly 
returning  his  salute  without  looking  at  him,  and  neither 
seating  herself  nor  inviting  him  to  be  seated,  she  waited 
for  him  to  speak. 

Intrenched  in  her  pride  and  power,  and  with  all  the 
obduracy  of  her  spirit  summoned  about  her,  still  her  old 
conviction  that  she  and  her  mother  had  been  known  by 
this  man  in  their  worst  colors,  from  their  first  acquaintance  ; 
that  every  degradation  she  had  suffered  in  her  own  eyes 
was  as  plain  to  him  as  to  herself  ;  that  he  read  her 
life  as  though  it  were  a  vile  book,  and  fluttered  the  leaves 
before  her  in  slight  looks  and  tones  of  voice  which  no  one 
else  could  detect;  weakened  and  undermined  her.  Proudly 
as  she  opposed  herself  to  him,  with  her  commanding  face 
exacting  his  humility,  her  disdainful  lip  repulsing  him,  her 
bosom  angry  at  his  intrusion,  and  the  dark  lashes  of  her  eyes 
sullenly  veiling  their  light,  that  no  ray  of  it  might  shine  upon 
him — and  submissively  as  he  stood  before  her,  w^ith  an 
entreating,  injured  manner,  but  with  complete  submission 
to  her  will  — she  knew,  in  her  own  soul,  that  the  cases  were 
reversed,  and  that  the  triumph  and  superiority  were  his,  and 
that  he  knew  it  full  well. 

"  I  have  presumed,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  to  solicit  an  inter- 
view, and  I  have  ventured  to  describe  it  as  being  one  of 
business,  because — " 

"  Perhaps  you  are  charged  by  Mr.  Dombey  with  some 
message  of  reproof,"  said  Edith.  "  You  possess  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  confidence  in  such  an  unusual  degree,  sir,  that  you 
would  scarcely  surprise  me  if  that  were  your  business." 

'*  I  have  no  message  to  the  lady  who  sheds  a  lustre  upon 
his  name,"  said  Mr.  Carker.  "  But  I  entreat  that  lady,  on 
my  own  behalf,  to  be  just  to  a  very  humble  claimant  for 
justice  at  her  hands — a  mere  dependent  of  Mr.  Dombey 's — 
which  is  a  position  of  humility  ;  and  to  reflect  upon  my  per- 
fect  helplessness  last  night,  and    the   impossibility   of  my 


DOxMBEY  AND  SON.  525 

avoiding  the  share  that  was  forced  upon  me  in  a  very    pain- 
ful occasion." 

"  My  dearest  Edith,"  hinted  Cleopatra  in  a  low  voice,  as 
she  held  her  eyeglass  aside,  really  very  charming  of  Mr. 
What's-his-name.     And  full  of  heart  !  " 

"  For  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  appealing  to  Mrs.  Skewton 
with  a  look  of  grateful  deference — "  1  do  venture  to  call  it  a 
painful  occasion,  though  merely  because  it  was  so  to  me, 
who  had  the  misfortune  to  be  present.  So  slight  a  differ- 
ence, as  between  the  principals — between  those  who  love 
each  other  with  disinterested  devotion,  and  would  make  any 
sacrifice  of  self,  in  such  a  case — is  nothing.  As  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton  herself,  expressed,  with  so  much  truth  and  feeling  last 
night,  it  is  nothing." 

Edith  could  not  look  at  him,  but  she  said,  after  a  few 
moments. 

*'  And  your  business,  sir — " 

"  Edith,  my  pet,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  all  this  time  Mr. 
Carker  is  standing  !  My  dear  Mr.  Carker,  take  a  seat,  I  beg." 

He  offered  no  reply  to  the  mother,  but  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  proud  daughter,  as  though  he  would  only  be  bidden  by 
her,  and  was  resolved  to  be  bidden  by  her.  Edith,  in  spite 
of  herself,  sat  down,  and  slightly  motioned  with  her  hand  to 
him  to  be  seated  too.  No  action  could  be  colder,  haughtier, 
more  insolent  in  its  air  of  supremacy  and  disrespect,  but  she 
had  struggled  against  even  that  concession  ineffectually,  and 
it  was  wrested  from  her.  That  was  enough !  Mr.  Carker 
sat  down. 

''  May  I  be  allowed,  madam,"  said  Carker,  turning  his 
white  teeth  on  Mrs.  Skewton  like  a  light — "  a  lady  of  your 
excellent  sense  and  quick  feeling  will  give  me  credit,  for 
good  reason,  I  am  sure — to  address  what  I  have  to  say  to 
Mrs.  Dombey,  and  to  leave  her  to  impart  it  to  you  who  are 
her  best  and  dearest  friend — next  to  Mr.  Dombey." 

Mrs.  Skewton  would  have  retired,  but  Edith  stopped  her. 
Edith  would  have  stopped  him,  too,  and  indignantly  ordered 
him  to  speak  openly  or  not  at  all,  but  that  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice — ''  Miss  Florence — the  young  lady  who  has  just  left  the 
room — " 

Edith  suffered  him  to  proceed.  She  looked  at  him  now. 
As  he  bent  forward,  to  be  nearer,  with  the  utmost  show  of 
delicacy  and  respect,  and  with  his  teeth  persuasively  arrayed, 
'n  a  self- depreciating  smile,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  have 
struck  him  dead. 


526  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Miss  Florence's  position,"  he  began,  "  has  been  an  unfor- 
tunate one.  I  have  a  difficulty  in  alluding  t^  it  to  you. 
whose  attachment  to  her  father  is  naturally  watchful  and 
jealous  of  every  word  that  applies  to  him."  Always  distinct 
and  soft  in  speech,  no  language  could  describe  the  extent  of 
his  distinctness  and  softness,  when  he  said  these  words,  or 
came  to  any  others  of  a  similar  import.  '^  But,  as  one  who 
is  devoted  to  Mr.  Dombey  in  his  different  way,  and  whose 
life  is  passed  in  admiration  of  Mr.  Dombey's  character,  may 
I  say,  without  offense  to  your  tenderness  as  as  a  wife,  that 
Miss  Florence  has  unhappily  been  neglected — by  her  father  ? 
May  I  say  by  her  father?" 

Edith  replied,  "  I  know  it." 

"  You  know  it  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  with  a  great  appearance 
of  relief.  '*  It  removes  a  mountain  from  my  breast.  May  I 
hope  you  know  how  the  neglect  originated  ;  in  what  an  amia- 
ble phase  of  Mr.  Uombey's  pride — character  I  mean  ?  " 

"  You  may  pass  that  by,  sir,"  she  returned,  "  and  come  the 
sooner  to  the  end  of  what  you  have  to  say." 

**  Indeed,  I  am  sensible,  madam,"  replied  Carker — "trust 
me,  I  am  deeply  sensible,  that  Mr.  Dombey  can  require  no 
justification  in  any  thing  to  you.  But  kindly  judge  of  my 
breast  by  your  own,  and  you  will  forgive  my  interest  in  him 
if,  in  its  excess,  it  goes  at  all  astray." 

What  a  stab  to  her  proud  heart,  to  sit  there,  face  to  face 
with  him,  and  have  him  tendering  her  false  oath  at  the  altar 
again  and  again  for  her  acceptance,  and  pressing  it  upon  her 
like  the  dregs  of  a  sickening  cup  she  could  not  own  her 
loathing  of,  or  turn  away  from  !  How  shame,  remorse,  and 
passion  raged  within  her,  when,  upright  and  majestic  in  her 
beauty  before  him,  she  knew  that  in  her  spirit  she  was  down 
at  his  feet  ! 

"Miss  Florence,"  said  Carker,  "left  to  the  care — if  one 
may  call  it  care — of  servants  and  mercenary  people,  in  every 
way  her  inferiors,  necessarily  wanted  some  guide  and  com- 
pass in  her  younger  days,  and  naturally,  for  want  of  them, 
has  been  indiscreet,  and  has  in  some  degree  forgotten  her 
station.  There  was  some  folly  about  one  Walter,  a  common 
lad,  who  is  fortunately  dead  now  ;  and  some  very  undesir- 
able association,  I  regret  to  say,  with  certain  coasting  sailors, 
of  any  thing  but  good  repute,  and  a  runaway  old  bankrupt." 

"  I  have  heard  the  circumstances,  sir,"  said  Edith,  flashing 
her  disdainful  glance  upon  him,  "  and  I  know  that  you  per- 
vert them.     You  may  not  know  it,  I  hope  so." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  527 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  believe  that  nobody 
knows  them  so  well  as  I.  Your  generous  and  ardent  nature, 
madam — the  same  nature  which  is  so  nobly  imperative  in 
vindication  of  your  beloved  and  honored  husband,  and  which 
has  blessed  him  as  even  his  merits  deserve — I  must  respect, 
defer  to,  bow  before.  But,  as  regards  the  circumstances, 
which  is  indeed  the  business  I  presumed  to  soHcit  your 
attention  to,  I  can  have  no  doubt,  since,  in  the  execution  of 
my  trust  as  Mr.  Dombey's  confidential — I  presume  to  say — 
friend,  I  have  fully  ascertained  them.  In  my  execution  of 
that  trust ;  in  my  deep  concern,  which  you  can  so  well  under- 
stand, for  every  thing  relating  to  him,  intensified,  if  you  will 
(for  I  fear  I  labor  under  your  displeasure),  by  the  lower 
motive  of  desire  to  prove  my  diligence,  and  make  myself  the 
more  acceptable  ;  I  have  long  pursued  these  circumstances 
by  myself  and  trustworthy  instruments,  and  have  innumer- 
able and  most  minute  proofs." 

She  raised  her  eyes  no  higher  than  his  mouth,  but  she  saw 
the  means  of  mischief  vaunted  in  every  tooth    it  contained. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam,"  he  continued,  "  if,  in  my  per- 
plexity, I  presume  to  take  counsel  with  you,  and  to  consult 
your  pleasure.  I  think  I  have  observed  that  you  are  greatly 
interested  in  Miss  Florence  ?  " 

What  was  there  in  her  he  had  not  observed,  and  did  not 
know  ?  Humbled  and  yet  maddened  by  the  thought,  in 
every  new  presentment  of  it,  however  faint,  she  pressed  her 
teeth  upon  her  quivering  lip  to  force  composure  on  it,  and 
distantly  inclined  her  head  in  reply. 

"This  interest,  madam— so  touching  an  evidence  of  every 
thing  associated  with  Mr.  Dombey  being  dear  to  you— 
induces  me  to  pause  before  I  make  him  acquainted  with 
these  circumstances,  which,  as  yet,  he  does  not  know.  It  so 
far  shakes  me,  if  I  may  make  the  confession,  in  my  alle- 
giance, that  on  the  intimation  of  the  least  desire  to  that  effect 
from  you,  1  would  suppress  them." 

Edith  raised  her  head  quickly,  and  starting  back,  bent  her 
dark  glance  upon  him.  He  met  it  with  his  blandest  and 
most  deferential  smile,  and  went  on. 

''You  say  that  as  I  describe  them,  they  are  perverted.  I 
fear  not — I  fear  not;  but  let  us  assume  that  they  are.  ^  The 
uneasiness  I  have  for  some  time  felt  on  the  subject  arises  in 
this  ;  that,  the  mere  circumstance  of  such  association  often 
repeated,  on  the  part  of  Miss  Florence,  however  innocently 
and  confidingly,  would  be  conclusive  with    Mr.   Dombey, 


528  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

already  predisposed  against  her,  and  would  lead  him  to  take 
some  step  (I  know  he  has  occasionally  contemplated  it)  of 
separation  and  alienation  of  her  from  his  home.  Madam, 
bear  with  me,  and  remember  my  intercourse  with  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  and  my  knowledge  of  him,  and  my  reverence  for  him 
almost  from  childhood,  when  I  say  that  if  he  has  a  fault,  it 
is  a  lofty  stubbornness,  rooted  in  that  noble  pride  and  sense 
of  power  which  belong  to  him,  and  which  we  must  all  defer 
to  ;  which  is  not  assailable  like  the  obstinacy  of  other  char- 
acters ;  and  which  grows  upon  itself  from  day  to  day,  and 
year  to  year." 

She  bent  her  glance  upon  him  still  ;  but,  look  as  steadfast 
as  she  would,  her  haughty  nostrils  dilated,  and  her  breath 
came  somewhat  deeper,  and  her  lip  would  slightly  curl,  as  he 
described  that  in  his  patron  to  which  they  must  all  bow 
down.  He  saw  it ;  and  though  his  expression  did  not 
change,  she  knew  he  saw  it. 

"  Even  so  slight  an  incident  as  last  night's,"  he  said,  "  if  I 
might  refer  to  it  once  more,  would  serve  to  illustrate  my 
meaning  better  than  a  greater  one.  Dombey  and  Son  know 
neither  time  nor  place,  nor  season,  but  bear  them  all  down. 
But  I  rejoice  in  its  occurrence,  for  it  has  opened  the  way  for 
me  to  approach  Mrs.  Dombey  with  this  subject  to-day,  even 
if  it  has  entailed  upon  me  the  penalty  of  her  temporary  dis- 
pleasure. Madam,  in  the  midst  of  my  uneasiness  and  appre- 
hension on  this  subject,  I  was  summoned  by  Mr.  Dombey  to 
Leamington.  There  I  saw  you.  There  I  could  not  help 
knowing  what  relation  you  would  shortly  occupy  toward  him 
— to  his  enduring  happiness  and  yours.  There  I  resolved 
to  await  the  time  of  your  establishment  at  home  here,  and  to 
do  as  I  have  now  done.  I  have,  at  heart,  no  fear  that  I  shall 
be  wanting  in  my  duty  to  Mr.  Dombey,  if  I  bury  what  I 
know  in  your  breast;  for  where  there  is  but  one  heart  and 
mind  between  two  persons — as  in  such  a  marriage — one 
almost  represents  the  other.  I  can  acquit  my  conscience, 
therefore,  almost  equally,  by  confidence  on  such  a  theme,  in 
you  or  him.  For  the  reasons  I  have  mentioned  I  would 
select  you.  May  I  aspire  to  the  distinction  of  believing  that 
my  confidence  is  accepted,  and  that  I  am  relieved  from  my 
responsibility  ?  " 

He  long  remembered  the  look  she  gave  him — who  could 
see  it  and  forget  it  ? — and  the  struggle  that  ensued  within 
her.     At  last  she  said  : 

"  I  accept  it,  sir.  You  will  please  to  consider  this  matter 
at  an  end,  and  that  it  goes  no  farther." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  5^9 

He  bowed  low,  and  rose.  She  rose  too,  and  he  took  leave 
with  all  humility.  But  Withers,  meeting  him  on  the  stairs, 
stood  amazed  at  the  beauty  of  his  teeth,  and  at  his  briUiant 
smile  ;  and  as  he  rode  away  upon  his  white-legged  horse,  the 
people  took  him  for  a  dentist,  such  was  the  dazzling  show 
he  made.  The  people  took  her,  when  she  rode  out  in  her 
carriage  presently,  for  a  great  lady,  as  happy  as  she  was  rich 
and  fine.  But  they  had  not  seen  her,  just  before,  in  her  own 
room  with  no  one  by  ;  and  they  had  not  heard  her  utterance 
of  the  three  words,  "  Oh,  Florence,  Florence  !  " 

Mrs.  Skewton,  reposing  on  her  sofa,  and  sipping  her  choco- 
late, had  heard  nothing  but  the  low  word  business,  for  which 
she  had  a  mortal  aversion,  insomuch  that  she  had  long  ban- 
ished it  from  her  vocabulary,  and  had  gone  nigh,  in  a  charm- 
ing manner  and  with  an  immense  amount  of  heart,  to  say 
nothing  of  soul,  to  ruin  divers  milliners  and  others  in  conse- 
quence. Therefore  Mrs.  Skewton  asked  no  questions,  and 
showed  no  curiosity.  Indeed,  the  peach-velvet  bonnet  gave 
her  sufficient  occupation  out-of-doors  ;  for  being  perched 
on  the  back  of  her  head,  and  the  day  being  rather  windy,  it 
was  frantic  to  escape  from  Mrs.  Skewton's  company,  and 
would  be  coaxed  into  no  sort  of  compromise.  When  the 
carriage  was  closed,  and  the  wind  shut  out,  the  palsy  played 
among  the  artificial  roses  again  like  an  alms-house  full  of 
superannuated  zephyrs  ;  and  altogether  Mrs.  Skewton  had 
enough  to  do,  and  got  on  but  indifferently. 

She  got  on  no  better  toward  night  ;  for  when  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey,  in  her  dressing-room,  had  been  dressed  and  waiting  for 
her  half  an  hour,  and  Mr.  Dombey,  in  the  drawing-room, 
had  paraded  himself  into  a  state  of  solemn  fretfulness  (they 
were  all  three  going  oat  to  dinner),  Flowers,  the  maid, 
appeared  with  a  pale  face  to  Mrs.  Dombey,  saying  : 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  can't  do 
nothing  with  Missis  !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Edith. 

"  Well  ma'am,"  replied  the  frightened  maid,  ''  I  hardly 
know.     She's  making  faces  !  " 

Edith  hurried  with  her  to  her  mother's  room.  Cleopatra 
was  arrayed  in  full  dress,  with  the  diamonds,  short  sleeves, 
rouge,  curls,  teeth,  and  other  juvenility  all  complete  ;  but 
paralysis  was  not  to  be  deceived,  had  known  her  for  the 
object  if  its  errand,  and  had  struck  her  at  her  glass,  where 
she  lay  like  a  horrid  doll  that  had  tumbled  down. 

They  took  her  to  pieces  in  very  shame,  and  put  the  little 


530  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  her  that  was  real  on  the  bed.  Doctors  were  sent  for,  and 
soon  came.  Powerful  remedies  were  resorted  to  ;  opinions 
given  that  she  would  rally  from  this  shock,  but  would  not 
survive  another  ;  and  there  she  lay  speechless,  and  staring 
at  the  ceiling  for  days ;  sometimes  making  inarticulate 
sounds  in  answer  to  such  questions,  as  did  she  know  who 
were  present,  and  the  like  ;  sometimes  giving  no  reply 
either  by  sign  or  gesture,  or  in  her  unwinking  eyes. 

At  length  she  began  to  recover  consciousness,  and  in 
some  degree  the  power  of  motion,  though  not  yet  of  speech. 
One  day  the  use  of  her  right  hand  returned  ;  and  showing 
it  to  her  maid  who  was  in  attendance  on  her,  and  appearing 
very  uneasy  in  her  mind,  she  made  signs  for  a  pencil  and  some 
paper.  This  the  maid  immediately  provided,  thinking  she 
was  going  to  make  a  will,  or  write  some  last  request ;  and 
Mrs.  Dombey  being  from  home,  the  maid  awaited  the  result 
with  solemn  feelings. 

After  much  painful  scrawling  and  erasing,  and  putting  in 
of  wrong  characters,  which  seemed  to  tumble  out  of  the 
pencil  of  their  own  accord,  the  old  woman  produced  this 
document  : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains." 

The  maid  being  perfectly  transfixed,  and  with  tolerable 
reason,  Cleopatra  amended  the  manuscript  by  adding  two 
words  more,  when  it  stood  thus  : 

"  Rose-colored  curtains  for  doctors." 

The  maid  now  perceived  remotely  that  she  wished  these 
articles  to  be  provided  for  the  better  presentation  of  her 
complexion  to  the  faculty  ;  and  as  those  in  the  house  who 
knew  her  best  had  no  doubt  of  the  correctness  of  this 
opinion,  which  she  was  soon  able  to  establish  for  herself, 
the  rose-colored  curtains  were  added  to  her  bed,  and  she 
mended  with  increased  rapidity  from  that  hour.  She  was 
soon  able  to  sit  up,  in  curls  and  a  laced  cap  and  night-gown, 
and  to  have  a  little  artificial  bloom  dropped  into  the  hollow 
caverns  of  her  cheeks. 

It  was  a  tremendous  sight  to  see  this  old  woman  in  her 
finery  leering  and  mincing  at  death,  and  playing  off  her 
youthful  tricks  upon  him  as  if  he  had  been  the  major  ;  but 
an  alteration  in  her  mind  that  ensued  on  the  paralytic  stroke 
was  fraught  with  as  much  matter  for  reflection,  and  was  quite 
as  ghastly. 

Whether  the  weakening  of  her  intellect  made  her  more 
cunning  and  false  than  before,  or  whether  it  confused  her 


"WITHERS,    MEETING    HIM    ON    THE    STAIKS,    STOOD    AMAZED    AT   TFE    BFA^  Ty    OF 
HIS    TEETH,    AND    AT    HTR    PPTXTTiVT    SMLLE. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  531 

between  what  she  had  assumed  to  be  and  what  she  really 
had  been,  or  whether  it  had  awakened  any  glimmering  of 
remorse,  which  could  neither  struggle  into  light  nor  get  back 
into  total  darkness,  or  whether,  in  the  jumble  of  her  faculties, 
a  combination  of  these  effects  had  been  shaken  up,  which  is 
perhaps  the  more  likely  supposition,  the  result  was  this  : 
That  she  became  hugely  exacting  in  respect  of  Edith's 
affection  and  gratitude  and  attention  to  her  ;  highly  lauda- 
tory of  herself  as  a  most  inestimable  parent  ;  and  very  jeal- 
ous of  having  any  rival  in  Edith's  regard.  Further,  in  place 
of  remembering  that  compact  made  between  them  for  an 
avoidance  of  the  subject,  she  constantly  alluded  to  her 
daughter's  marriage  as  a  proof  of  her  being  an  incompar- 
able mother  ;  and  all  this,  with  the  weakness  and  peevish- 
ness of  such  a  state,  always  serving  for  a  sarcastic  commen- 
tary on  her  levity  and  youthfulness. 

"Where  is  Mrs.   Dombey  ? "  she  would  say  to  her  maid. 

"  Gone  out,  ma'am." 

"  Gone  out  ?  Does  she  go  out  to  shun  her  mamma. 
Flowers  ? " 

"  La,  bless  you,  no,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Dombey  has  only  gone 
out  for  a  ride  with  Florence." 

"  Miss  Florence.  Who's  Miss  Florence  ?  Don't  tell  me 
about  Miss  Florence.  What's  Miss  Florence  to  her,  com- 
pared to  me  ? " 

The  apposite  display  of  the  diamonds,  or  the  peach-velvet 
bonnet  (she  sat  in  the  bonnet  to  receive  visitors,  weeks 
before  she  could  stir  out-of-doors),  or  the  dressing  of  her  up 
in  some  gaud  or  other,  usually  stopped  the  tears  that  began 
to  flow  hereabout ;  and  she  would  remain  in  a  complacent 
state  until  Edith  came  to  see  her  ;  when  at  a  glance  of  the 
proud  face,  she  would  relapse  again. 

"  Well,  I  am  sure,  Edith  !  "  she  would  cry,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  What  is  the  ^  atter,  mother  ?  " 

"  Matter  !  1  really  don't  know  what  is  the  matter.  The 
world  is  coming  to  such  an  artificial  and  ungrateful  state- 
that  I  begin  to  think  there's  no  heart — or  any  thing  of  that 
sort — left  in  it,  positively.  Withers  is  more  a  child  to  me 
than  you  are.  He  attends  to  me  much  more  than  my  own 
daughter.  I  almost  wish  I  didn't  look  so  young — and  all 
that  kind  of  thing — and  then  perhaps  I  should  be  more  con- 
sidered." 

*'  What  would  you  have,  mother  ?  " 


532  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  Oh,  a  great  deal,  Edith,"  impatiently. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  you  want  that  you  have  not  ^  It  n 
your  own  fault  if  there  be." 

"  My  own  fault  !  "  beginning  to  whimper,  "  The  parent 
I  have  been  to  you,  Edith  ;  making  you  a  companion  from  your 
cradle  !  And  when  you  neglect  me,  and  have  no  more  nat- 
ural affection  for  me  than  if  I  was  stranger — not  a  twentieth 
part  of  the  affection  that  you  have  for  Florence — but  I  am 
only  your  mother,  and  should  correct  Aer  in  a  day  ! — you 
reproach  me  with  its  being  my  own  fault." 

"  Mother,  mother,  I  reproach  you  with  nothing.  Why 
will  you  always  dwell  on  this  ? " 

"  Isn't  it  natural  that  I  should  dwell  on  this,  when  I  am 
all  affection  and  sensitiveness,  and  am  wounded  in  the  crud- 
est way,  whenever  you  look  at  me  ? " 

"I  do  not  mean  to  wound  you,  mother.  Have  you  no 
remembrance  of  what  has  been  said  between  us  ?  Let  the 
past  rest. 

"  Yes,  rest  !  And  let  gratitude  to  me  rest ;  and  let  affec- 
tion for  me  rest ;  and  let  me  rest  in  my  out-of-the-way 
room,  with  no  society  and  no  attention,  while  you  find  new 
relations  to  make  much  of,  who  have  no  earthly  claim  upon 
you  !  Good  gracious,  Edith,  do  you  know  what  an  elegant 
establishment  you  are  at  the  head  of  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Hush  !  " 

"  And  that  gentlemanly  creature,  Dombey  ?  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  married  to  him,  Edith,  and  that  you  have  a 
settlement,  and  a  position,  and  a  carriage,  and  I  don't  know 
what  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  know  it,  mother  ;  well." 

"  As  you  would  have  had  with  that  delightful  good  soul — 
what  did  they  call  him  ? — Granger — if  he  ha.dn't  died.  And 
who  have  you  to  thank  for  all  this,  Edith  ? " 

"You,  mother  ;  you." 

"  Then  put  your  arms  round  my  neck  and  kiss  me  ;  and 
show  me,  Edith,  that  you  know  there  never  was  a  better 
mamma  than  I  have  been  to  you.  And  don't  let  me  become 
a  perfect  fright  with  teasing  and  wearing  myself  at  your 
ingratitude,  or  when  I'm  out  again  in  society  no  soul  will 
know  me,  not  even  that  hateful  animal,  the  major." 

"  But,  sometimes,  when  Edith  went  nearer  to  her,  and 
bending  down  her  stately  head,  put  her  cold  cheek  to  hers, 
the  mother  would  draw  back  as  if  she  were  afraid  of  her, 
and  would   fall  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  and  cry  out   that 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  533 

there  was  a  wandering  in  her  wits.  And  sometimes  she 
would  entreat  her,  with  humility,  to  sit  down  on  the  chair 
beside  her  bed,  and  would  look  at  her  (as  she  sat  there 
brooding)  with  a  face  that  even  the  rose-colored  curtains 
could  not  make  otherwise  than  seared  and  wild. 

The  rose-colored  curtains  blushed,  in  course  of  time,  on 
Cleopatra's  bodily  recovery,  and  on  her  dress — more  juven- 
ile than  ever  to  repair  the  ravages  of  illness — and  on  the 
rouge,  and  on  the  teeth,  and  on  the  curls,  and  on  the  dia- 
monds, and  the  short  sleeves,  and  the  whole  wardrobe  of 
the  doll  that  had  tumbled  down  before  the  mirror.  They 
blushed,  too,  now  and  then,  upon  an  indistinctness  in  her 
speech  which  she  turned  off  with  a  girlish  giggle,  and  on 
an  occasional  failing  in  her  memory,  that  had  no  rule  in  it 
but  came  and  went  fantastically,  as  if  in  mockery  of  her  fan- 
tastic self. 

But  they  never  blushed  upon  a  change  in  the  new  manner 
of  her  thought  and  speech  toward  her  daughter.  And 
though  that  daughter  often  came  within  their  influence, 
they  never  blushed  upon  her  loveliness  irradiated  by  a  smile, 
or  softened  by  the  light  of  filial  love,  in  its  stern  beauty. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

MISS  TOX  IMPROVES  AN  OLD  ACQUAINTANCE. 

The  forlorn  Miss  Tox,  abandoned  by  her  friend  Louisa 
Chick,  and  bereft  of  Mr.  Dombey's  countenance — for  no 
delicate  pair  of  wedding-cards,  united  by  a  silver  thread, 
graced  the  chimney-glass  in  Princess's  place,  or  the  harp- 
sichord, or  any  of  those  little  posts  of  display  which  Lucre- 
tia  reserved  for  holiday  occupation — became  depressed  in 
her  spirits,  and  suffered  much  from  melancholy.  For  a 
time  the  bird  waltz  was  unheard  in  Princess's  place,  the 
plants  were  neglected,  and  dust  neglected,  on  the  miniature 
of  Miss  Tox's  ancestor  with  the  powdered-head  and  pigtail. 

Miss  Tox,  however,  was  not  of  an  age  or  of  a  disposition 
long  to  abandon  herself  to  unavailing  regrets.  Only  two 
notes  of  the  harpsichord  were  dumb  from  disuse  when  the 
bird  waltz  again  warbled  and  trilled  in  the  crooked  draw- 
ing-room ;  only  one  slip  of  geranium  fell  a  victim  to  imper- 
fect nursing,  before  she  was  gardening  at  her  green  baskets 
again,    regularly    every    morning  ;     the    powdered-headed 


534  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ancestor  had  not  been  under  a  cloud  for  more  than  s^ 
weeks,  when  Miss  Tox  breathed  on  his  benignant  visage, 
and  polished  him  up  with  a  piece  of  wash-leather. 

Still,  Miss  Tox  was  lonely,  and  at  a  loss.  Her  attach- 
ments, hoAvever  ludicrously  shown,  were  real  and  strong  ; 
and  she  was,  as  she  expressed  it,  "  deeply  hurt  by  the 
unmerited  contumely  she  had  met  with  from  Louisa."  But 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  anger  in  Miss  Tox's  composition. 
If  she  had  ambled  on  through  life,  in  her  soft-spoken  way, 
without  any  opinions,  she  had,  at  least,  got  so  far  without 
any  harsh  passions.  The  mere  sight  of  Louisa  Chick  in  the 
street  one  day,  at  a  considerable  distance,  so  overpowered 
her  milky  nature,  that  she  was  fain  to  seek  immediate  refuge 
in  a  pastry-cook's,  and  there,  in  a  musty  little  back-room 
usually  devoted  to  the  consumption  of  soups,  and  pervaded 
by  an  ox-tail  atmosphere,  relieve  her  feelings  by  weeping 
plentifully. 

Against  Mr.  Dombey  Miss  Tox  hardly  felt  that  she  had 
any  reason  of  complaint.  Her  sense  of  that  gentleman's 
magnificence  was  such,  that  once  removed  from  him,  she 
felt  as  if  her  distance  always  had  been  immeasurable,  and 
as  if  he  had  greatly  condescended  in  tolerating  her  at  all. 
No  wife  could  be  too  handsome  or  too  stately  for  him, 
according  to  Miss  Tox's  sincere  opinion.  It  was  perfectly 
natural  that  in  looking  for  one,  he  should  look  high.  Miss 
Tox  with  tears  laid  down  this  proposition,  and  fully 
admitted  it,  twenty  times  a  day.  She  never  recalled  the 
lofty  manner  in  which  Mr.  Dombey  had  made  her  subserv- 
ient to  his  convenience  and  caprices,  and  had  graciously 
permitted  her  to  be  one  of  the  nurses  of  his  little  son.  She 
only  thought,  in  her  own  words,  ''  that  she  had  passed  a 
great  many  happy  hours  in  that  house,  which  she  must  ever 
remember  with  gratification,  and  that  she  could  never  cease 
to  regard  Mr  Dombey  as  one  of  the  most  impressive  and 
dignified  of  men." 

Cut  off,  however,  from  the  implacable  Louisa,  and  being 
shy  of  the  major  (whom  she  viewed  with  some  distrust  now), 
Miss  Tox  found  it  very  irksome  to  know  nothing  of  what 
v/as  going  on  in  Mr.  Dombey's  establishment.  And  as  she 
really  had  got  into  thfe  habit  of  considering  Dombey  and 
Son  as  the  pivot  on  which  the  world  in  general  turned,  she 
resolved,  rather  than  be  ignorant  of  intelligence  which  so 
strongly  interested  her,  to  cultivate  her  old  acquaintance, 
Mrs.  Richards,  who   she   knew,  since  her  last  memorable 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  535 

appearance  before  Mr.  Dombey,  was  in  the  habit  of  some- 
times holding  communication  with  his  servants.  Perhaps 
Miss  Tox,  in  seeking  out  the  Toodle  family,  had  the  tender 
motive  hidden  in  her  breast  of  having  somebody  to  whom 
she  could  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  no  matter  how  humble 
that  somebody  might  be. 

At  all  events,  toward  the  Toodle  habitation  Miss  Tox 
directed  her  steps  one  evening,  what  time  Mr.  Toodle, 
cindery  and  swart,  was  refreshing  himself  with  tea,  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family.  Mr.  Toodle  had  only  three  stages  of 
existence.  He  was  either  taking  refreshment  in  the  bosom 
just  mentioned,  or  he  was  tearing  through  the  country  at 
from  twenty-five  to  fifty  miles  an  hour,  or  he  was  sleeping 
after  his  fatigues.  He  was  always  in  a  whirlwind  or  a  calm, 
and  a  peaceable,  contented,  easy-going  man  Mr.  Toodle  was 
in  either  state,  who  seemed  to  have  made  over  all  his  own 
inheritance  of  fuming  and  fretting  to  the  engines  with  which 
he  was  connected,  which  panted,  and  gasped,  and  chafed, 
and  wore  themselves  out,  in  a  most  unsparing  manner,  while 
Mr.  Toodle  led  a  mild  and  equable  life. 

"  Polly,  my  gal,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  young  Toodle 
on  each  knee,  and  two  more  making  tea  for  him,  and  plenty 
more  scattered  about — Mr.  Toodle  was  never  out  of  children, 
but  always  kept  a  good  supply  on  hand — "  You  ain't  seen 
our  Biler  lately,  have  you  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Polly,  "  but  he's  almost  certain  to  look  in 
to-night.     It's  his  right  evening,  and  he's  very  regular." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  relishing  his  meal  infinitely, 
"  as  our  Biler  is  a-doin'  now  about  as  well  as  a  boy  can  do, 
eh,  Polly?" 

''  Oh  !  he's  a-doing  beautiful  !  "  responded  Polly. 

"  He  ain't  got  to  be  at  all  secret-like — has  he,  Polly  ? " 
inquired  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No  !  "  said  Mrs.  Toodle,  plumply. 

"  I'm   glad  he  ain't  got   to   be  at  all  secret-like,   Polly," 
observed  Mr.  Toodle  in  his  slow  and  measured  way,  and 
shoveling  in  his  bread-and-butter  with  a  clasp-knife,  as  if  he 
were  stoking  himself,  ''because  that  don't  look  well  ;  do  it 
Polly?" 

"  Why,  of  course  it  don't,  father.     How  can  you  ask  ?  " 

"You  see,  my  boys  and  gals,"  said  ]Mr.  Toodle,  looking 
round  upon  his  family,  "  wotever  you're  up  to  in  a  honest 
way,  it's  my  opinion  as  you  can't  do  better  than  be  open. 
If  you  find  yourselves  in  cuttings  or  in  tunnels,  don't  you 


536  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

play  no  secret  games.     Keep  your  whistles  going,  and  let's 
know  where  you  are." 

The  rising  Toodles  set  up  a  shrill  murmur,  expressive  of 
their  resolution  to  profit  by  the  paternal  advice.    ' 

"  But  Avhat  makes  you  say  this  along  of  Rob,  father  ? " 
asked  his  wife,  anxiously. 

"  Polly,  old  'ooman,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "  I  don't  know  as 
I  said  it  partickler  along  o'  Rob,  I'm  sure.  I  starts  light 
with  Bob  only  ;  I  comes  to  a  branch  ;  I  takes  on  what  I  finds 
there  ;  and  a  whole  train  of  ideas  gets  coupled  on  to  him 
afore  I  knows  where  I  am,  or  where  they  comes  from. 
What  a  Junction  a  man's  thoughts  is,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  "to 
be  sure  !  " 

This  profound  reflection  Mr.  Toodle  washed  down  with  a 
pint  mug  of  tea,  and  proceeded  to  solidify  with  a  great 
weight  of  bread-and-butter  ;  charging  his  young  daughters 
meanwhile  to  keep  plenty  of  hot  water  in  the  pot,  as  he  was 
uncommon  dry,  and  should  take  the  indefinite  quantity  of 
"  a  sight  of  mugs,"  before  his  thirst  was  appeased. 

In  satisfying  himself,  however,  Mr.  Toodle  was  not 
regardless  of  the  younger  branches  about  him,  who, 
although  they  had  made  their  own  evening  repast,  were  on 
the  look-out  for  irregular  morsels,  as  possessing  a  relish. 
These  he  distributed  now  and  then  to  the  expectant  circle, 
by  holding  out  great  wedges  of  bread-and-butter,  to  be 
bitten  at  by  the  family  in  lawful  succession,  and  by  serving 
out  small  doses  of  tea  in  like  manner  with  a  spoon  ;  which 
snacks  had  such  a  relish  in  the  mouths  of  these  young 
Toodles,  that,  after  partaking  of  the  same,  they  performed  ' 
private  dances  of  ecstasy  among  themselves,  and  stood  on 
one  leg  apiece,  and  hopped,  and  indulged  in  other  saltatory 
tokens  of  gladness.  These  vents  for  their  excitement  found, 
they  gradually  closed  about  Mr.  Toodle  again,  and  eyed 
him  hard  as  he  got  through  more  bread-and-butter  and  tea  ; 
affecting,  however,  to  ha.ve  no  further  expectations  of  their 
own  in  reference  to  those  viands,  but  to  be  conversing  on 
foreign  subjects,  and  whispering  confidentially. 

Mr.  Toodle,  in  the  midst  of  this  family  group,  and  setting 
an  awful  example  to  his  children  in  the  way  of  appetite,  was 
conveying  the  two  young  Toodles  on  his  knees  to  Birming- 
ham by  special  engine,  and  was  contemplating  the  rest  over 
a  barrier  of  bread-and-butter,  when  Rob  the  grinder,  in  his 
sou'wester  hat  and  mourning  slops,  presented  himself,  an(^ 
was  received  with  a  general  rush  of  brothers  and  sisters. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  537 

"  Well,  mother  !  "  said  Rob,  dutifully  kissing  her  ;  "  how 
are  you,  mothel* !  " 

"  There's  my  boy  !  "  cried  Polly,  giving  him  a  hug  and  a 
pat  on  the  back.     "  Secret !     Bless  you,  father,  not  he  !  " 

This  was  intended  for  Mr.  Toodle's  private  edification, 
but  Rob  the  grinder,  whose  withers  were  not  unwrung, 
caught  the  words  as  they  were  spoken. 

"  What  !  father's  been  a-saying  something  more  again  me, 
has  he  ?"  cried  the  injured  innocent.  "Oh,  what  a  hard 
thing  it  is  that  when  a  cove  has  once  gone  a  little  wrong,  a 
cove's  own  father  should  be  always  a-throwing  it  in  his  face 
behind  his  back  !  It's  enough,"  cried  Rob,  resorting  to  his 
coat-cuff  in  anguish  of  spirit,  "  to  make  a  cove  go  and  do 
something  out  of  spite  !  " 

"  My  poor  boy  !"  cried  Polly,  ''father  didn't  mean  any 
thing." 

"  If  father  didn't  mean  any  thing,"  blubbered  the  injured 
grinder,  "  why  did  he  go  and  say  any  thing,  mother  ? 
Nobody  thinks  half  so  bad  of  me  as  my  own  father  does. 
What  a  unnatural  thing  !  I  wish  somebody  'd  take  and 
chop  my  head  off.  Father  wouldn't  mind  doing  it,  I  believe, 
and  I'd  much  rather  he  did  that  than  t'other." 

At  these  desperate  words  all  the  young  Toodles  shrieked  ; 
a  pathetic  effect,  which  the  grinder  improved  by  ironically 
adjuring  them  not  to  cry  for  him,  for  they  ought  to  hate 
him,  they  ought,  if  they  was  good  boys  and  girls  ;  and  this 
so  touched  the  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  was  easily 
moved,  that  it  touched  him  not  only  in  his  spirit,  but  in  his 
wind  too  ;  making  him  so  purple  that  Mr.  Toodle,  in  con- 
sternation, carried  him  out  to  the  water-butt,  and  would 
have  put  him  under  the  tap,  but  for  his  being  recovered  by 
the  sight  of  that  instrument. 

Matters  having  reached  this  point,  Mr.  Toodle  explained, 
and  the  virtuous  feelings  of  his  son  being  thereby  calmed, 
they  shook  hands,  and  harmony  reigned  again. 

"  Will  you  do  as  I  do,  Biler,  my  boy  ? "  inquired  his 
father,  returning  to  his  tea  with  new  strength. 

"  No,  thankee,  father.     Master  and  I  had  tea  together." 

"  And  hov»^  is  master.  Bob  ? "  said  Polly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  mother  ;  not  much  to  boast  on. 
There  ain't  no  bis'ness  done,  you  see.  He  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it,  the  cap'en  don't.  There  was  a  man  come 
into  the  shop  this  very  day,  and  says,  '  I  want  a  so-and-so,' 
he  says — some  hard  name  or  another.      *  A  which  ? "  says 


538  DOMBEY   AND   SON.     ' 

the  cap'en.  'A  so-and-so/  says  the  man.  *  Brother/ says 
the  cap'en,  '  will  you  take  a  observation  round  the  shop  ?  * 
'Well/  says  the  man,  I've  done  it.'  'Do  you  see  wot  you 
want  ? '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I  don't,'  says  the  man.  *  Do 
you  know  it  wen  you  do  see  it  ? '  says  the  cap'en.  '  No,  I 
don't,'  says  the  man.  '  Why,  then  I  tell  you  wot,  my  lad,' 
says  the  cap'en,  you'd  better  go  back  and  ask  wot  it's  like, 
outside,  for  no  more  don't  I  ! '  "    « 

"  That  ain't  the  way  to  make  money,  though,  is  it  ? "  said 
Polly. 

"  Money,  mother  !  He'll  never  make  money.  He  has 
such  ways  as  I  never  see.  He  ain't  a  bad  master  though, 
I'll  say  that  for  him.  But  that  ain't  much  to  me,  for  I  don't 
think  I  shall  stop  with  him  long." 

"  Not  stop  in  your  place.  Bob  !  "  cried  his  mother  ;  while 
Mr.  Toodle  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Not  in  that  place,  p'raps,"  returned  the  grinder,  with  a 
wink.  "  I  shouldn't  wonder — friends  at  court,  you  know — 
but  XiQYti you  mind,  mother,  just  now  ;  I'm  all  right,  that's 
all." 

The  indisputable  proof  afforded  in  these  hints,  and  in  the 
grinder's  mysterious  manner,  of  his  not  being  subject  to 
that  failing  which  Mr.  Toodle  had,  by  implication,  attributed 
to  him,  might  have  led  to  a  renewal  of  his  wrongs,  and  of 
the  sensation  in  the  family,  but  for  the  opportune  arrival  of 
another  visitor,  who,  to  Polly's  great  surprise,  appeared  at 
the  door,  smiling  patronage  and  friendship  on  all  there. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Richards  ?  "  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I 
have  come  to  see  you.     May  I  come  in  ? " 

The  cheery  face  of  Mrs.  Richards  shone  with  a  hospitable 
reply,  and  Miss  Tox,  accepting  the  proffered  chair,  and 
gracefully  recognizing  Mr.  Toodle  on  her  way  to  it,  untied 
her  bonnet-strings,  and  said  that  in  the  first  place  she  must 
beg  the  dear  children,  one  and  all,  to  come  and  kiss  her. 

The  ill-starred  youngest  Toodle  but  one,  who  would 
appear,  from  the  frequency  of  his  domestic  troubles,  to  have 
been  born  under  an  unlucky  plamet,  was  prevented  from 
performing  his  part  in  this  general  salutation  by  having 
fixed  the  sou'wester  hat  (with  which  he  had  been  previously 
trifling)  deep  on  his  head,  hind  side  before,  and  being 
unable  to  get  it  off  again  ;  which  accident  presenting  to  his 
terrified  imagination  a  dismal  picture  of  his  passing  the  rest 
of  his  days  in  darkness,  and  in  hopeless  seclusion  from  his 
friends    and   family,    caused    him    to    struggle   with    great 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  539 

violence,  and  to  utter  suffocating  cries.  Being  released,  his 
face  was  discovered  to  be  very  hot,  and  red,  and  damp  ;  and 
Miss  Tox  took  him  on  her  lap,  much  exhausted. 

"  You  have  almost  forgotten  me,  sir,  I  dare  say,"  said  Miss 
Tox  to  Mr.  Toodle. 

"  No,  ma'am,  no,"  said  Toodle.  "  But  we've  all  on  us  got 
a  little  older  since  then." 

"  And  how  do  you  find  yourself,  sir  ? "  inquired  Miss  Tox, 
blandly. 

"  Hearty,  ma'am,  thankee, ''  replied  Toodle.  "  How  do 
you  find  yourself,  ma'am  ?  Do  the  rheumaticks  keep  off 
pretty  vv^ell,  ma'am  ?  We  must  all  expect  to  grow  into  'em 
as  we  gets  on." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "I  have  not  felt  any 
inconvenience  from  that  disorder  yet." 

"  You're  wery  fortunate,  ma'am,"  returned  Mr.  Toodle. 
"  Many  people  at  your  time  of  life,  ma'am,  is  martyrs  to  it. 
There  was  my  mother — "  But  catching  his  wife's  eye  here, 
Mr.  Toodle  judiciously  buried  the  rest  in  another  mug  of 
tea. 

"  You  never  mean  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  cried  Miss  Tox, 
looking  at  Rob,  "  that  that  is  your — " 

"  Eldest,  ma'am,"  said  Polly.  "  Yes,  indeed,  it  is.  That's 
the  little  fellow,  ma'am,  that  was  the  innocent  cause  of  so 
much." 

''This  here,  ma'am,"  said  Toodle,  "is  him  with  the  short 
legs — and  they  was,"  said  Mr.  Toodle,  with  a  touch  of 
poetry  in  his  tone,  "unusual  short  for  leathers — as  Mr. 
Dombey  made  a  grinder  on." 

The  recollection  almost  overpowered  Miss  Tox.  The 
subject  of  it  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  her  directly.  She 
asked  him  to  shake  hands,  and  congratulated  his  mother  on 
his  frank,  ingenuous  face.  Rob,  overhearing  her,  called  up 
a  look,  to  justify  the  eulogium,  but  it  was  hardly  the  right 
look. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox — "and  you 
too,  sir,"  addressing  Toodle — "  I'll  tell  you,  plainly  and 
truly,  what  I  have  come  here  for.  You  may  be  aware,  Mrs. 
Richards — and  possibly,  you  may  be  aware  too,  sir — that  a 
little  distance  has  interposed  itself  between  me  and  some  of 
my  friends,  and  that  where  I  used  to  visit  a  good  deal,  I  do 
not  visit  now." 

Polly,  who,  with  a  woman's  tact,  understood  this  at  once, 
expressed   as   much  in  a  little  look.     Mr.  Toodle,  who  had 


540  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

not  the  faintest   idea  of  what  Miss  Tox  was  talking  about, 
expressed  that  also,  in  a  stare, 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  how  our  little  coolness  has 
arisen  is  of  no  moment,  and  does  not  require  to  be  discussed. 
It  is  sufficient  for  me  to  say  that  I  have  the  greatest  pos- 
sible respect  for,  and  interest  in,  Mr.  Dombey ;  "  Miss 
Tox's  voice  faltered  ;  "  and  every  thing  that  relates  to 
him." 

Mr.  Toodle,  enlightened,  shook  his  head,  and  said  he  had 
heard  it  said,  and,  for  his  own  part  he  did  not  think,  as 
Mr.  Dombey  was  a  difficult  subject. 

"  Pray  don't  say  so,  sir,  if  you  please,"  returned  Miss 
Tox.  "  Let  me  entreat  you  not  to  say  so,  sir,  either  now 
or  any  future  time.  Such  observations  can  not  but  be  very 
painful  to  me  and  to  a  gentleman,  whose  mind  is  so  consti- 
tuted as,  I  am  quite  sure  yours  is,  can  afford  no  permanent 
satisfaction." 

Mr,  Toodle,  who  has  not  entertained  the  least  doubt  of 
offering  a  remark  that  would  be  received  with  acquiescence, 
was  greatly  confounded. 

"  All  that  I  Avish  to  say,  Mrs.  Richards,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Tox — '''  and  I  address  myself  to  you  too,  sir — is  this. 
That  any  intelligence  of  the  proceedings  of  the  family,  of  the 
welfare  of  the  family,  of  the  health  of  the  family,  that 
reaches  you,  will  be  always  most  acceptable  to  me.  That  I 
shall  be  always  very  glad  to  chat  with  Mrs.  Richards  about 
the  family,  and  about  old  times.  And  as  Mrs,  Richards, 
and  I  never  had  the  least  difference  (though  I  could  wish 
now  that  we  had  been  better  acquainted,  but  I  have  no  one 
but  myself  to  blame  for  that),  I  hope  she  would  not  object 
to  our  being  very  good  friends  now^  and  to  my  coming 
backward  and  forward  here,  when  I  like,  without  being  a 
stranger.  Now,  I  really  hope,  Mrs.  Richards,"  said  Miss 
Tox,  earnestly,  "  that  you  will  take  this,  as  I  mean  it,  like  a 
good-humored  creature  as  you  always  were." 

Polly  was  gratified  and  showed  it.  Mr,  Toodle  didn't 
know  whether  he  was  gratified  or  not,  and  preserved  a  stolid 
calmness. 

"  You  sec,  Mrs,  Richards,"  said  Miss  Tox — "  and  I  hope 
you  see  too,  sir — there  are  many  little  ways  in  which  I  can 
be  very  useful  to  you,  if  you  will  make  no  stranger  of  me  ; 
and  in  which  I  shall  be  delighted  to  be  so.  For  instance,  I 
can  teach  your  children  something.  I  shall  bring  a  few 
little  books,  if   you'll  allow  me,  and  some  work,  and  of  an 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  541 

evening  now  and  then,  they'll  learn — dear  me,  they'll  learn  a 
great  deal,  I  trust,  and  be  a  credit  to  their  teacher." 

Mr.  Toodle,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  learning,  jerked 
his  head  approvingly  at  his  wife,  and  moistened  his  hands 
with  dawning  satisfaction, 

''  Then,  not  being  a  stranger,  I  shall  be  in  nobody's  way," 
said  Miss  Tox,  ''  and  every  thing  will  go  on  just  as  if  I  were 
not  here.  Mrs.  Richards  will  do  her  mending,  or  her  iron- 
ing, or  her  nursing,  whatever  it  is,  without  minding  me  ;  and 
you'll  smoke  your  pipe,  too,  if  you're  so  disposed,  sir, 
won't  you  ?" 

"Thankee,  mum,"  said  Mr.  Toodle.  *' Yes  ;  I'll  take  my 
bit  of  backer." 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,  sir,"  rejoined  Miss  Tox, 
**  and  I  really  do  assure  you  now,  unfeignedly,  that  it  will 
DC  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  that  whatever  good  I  may  be 
fortunate  enough  to  do  to  the  children,  you  will  more  than 
pay  back  to  me,  if  you'll  enter  into  this  little  bargain  com- 
fortably, and  easily,  and  good-naturedly,  without  another 
word  about  it." 

The  bargain  was  ratified  on  the  spot ;  and  Miss  Tox 
found  herself  so  much  at  home  already,  that  without  delay 
she  instituted  a  preliminary  examination  of  the  children  all 
around — which  Mr.  Toodle  much  admired — and  booked  their 
ages,  names,  and  acquirements  on  a  piece  of  paper.  This 
ceremony,  and  a  little  attendant  gossip,  prolonged  the  time 
until  after  their  usual  hour  of  going  to  bed,  and  detained 
Miss  Tox  at  the  Toodle  fireside  until  it  was  too  late  for  her 
to  w^alk  home  alone.  The  gallant  grinder,  however,  being 
still  there,  politely  offered  to  attend  her  to  her  own  door  ; 
and  as  it  was  something  to  Miss  Tox  to  be  seen  home  by  a 
youth  whom  Mr.  Dombey  had  first  inducted  into  those 
manly  garments  which  are  rarely  mentioned  by  name,  she 
very  readily  accepted  the  proposal. 

After  shaking  hands  v.-ith  Mr.  Toodle  and  Polly,  and  kiss- 
ing all  the  children.  Miss  Tox  left  the  house,  therefore,  with 
unlimited  popularity,  and  carrying  away  with  her  so  light  a 
heart  that  it  might  have  given  Mrs.  Chick  offense  if  that 
good  lady  could  have  weighed  it.  Rob  the  grinder,  in  his 
modesty,  would  have  v/alked  behind,  but  Miss  Tox  desired 
him  to  keep  beside  her,  for  conversational  purposes  ;  and,  as 
she  afterwards  expressed  it  to  her  mother,  "  drew  him  out  " 
upon  the  road. 

He  drew  out  so  bright,  and  clear,  and  shining,  that  Miss 


542  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Tox  was  charmed  with  him.  The  more  Miss  Tox  drew  him 
out,  the  finer  he  came — Hke  wire.  There  never  was  a  bet- 
ter or  more  promising  youth — a  more  affectionate,  steady, 
prudent,  sober,  honest,  meek,  candid  young  man — than  Rob 
drew  out  that  night. 

"  I  am  quite  glad,"  said  Miss  Tox,  arrived  at  her  own 
door,  "  to  know  you.  I  hope  you'll  consider  me  your 
friend,  and  that  you'll  come  and  see  me  as  often  as  you 
like.     Do  you  keep  a  money-box  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  returned  Rob,  "  I'm  saving  up  agaiwst 
I've  got  enough  to  put  in  the  bank,  ma'am." 

"  Very  laudable,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Tox.  "  I'm  glad  to 
hear  it.     Put  this  half-crown  into  it,  if  you  please. 

"Oh  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied  Rob,  "but  really  I 
couldn't  think  of  depriving  you." 

"  I  commend  your  independent  spirit,"  said  Miss  Tox, 
"  but  it's  no  deprivation,  I  assure  you.  I  shall  be  offended 
if  you  don't  take  it,  as  a  mark  of  my  good- will.  Good- 
night, Robin." 

"Good-night,  ma'am,"  said  Rob,  "and  thank  you." 

Who  ran  sniggering  off  to  get  change,  and  tossed  it  away 
with  a  pieman.  But  they  never  taught  honor  at  the 
grinders'  school,  where  the  system  that  prevailed  was  par- 
ticularly strong  in  the  engendering  of  hypocrisy.  Inso- 
much, that  many  of  the  friends  and  masters  of  past 
grinders  said,  if  this  were  what  came  of  education  for  the 
common  people,  let  us  have  none.  Some  more  rational 
said,  let  us  have  a  better  one.  But  the  governing  powers  of 
the  grinders'  company  were  always  ready  for  thon^  by 
picking  out  a  few  boys  who  had  turned  out  well  in  spite  of 
the  system,  and  roundly  asserting  that  they  could  have  only 
turned  out  well  because  of  it.  Which  settled  the  business 
of  those  objectors  out  of  hand,  and  established  the  glory  of 
the  grinders'  institution. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FURTHER      ADVENTURES      OF      CAPTAIN      EDWARD      CUTTLE, 

MARINER. 

Time,  sure  of  foot  and  strong  of  will,  had  so  pressed 
onward,  that  the  year  enjoined  by  the  old  instrument-maker 
as  the  term  during  which  his  friend   should    refrain   from 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  543 

opening  the  sealed  packet  accompanying  the  letter  he  had 
left  for  him  was  now  nearly  expired,  and  Captain  Cuttle 
began  to  look  at  it,  of  an  evening,  with  feelings  of  mystery 
and  uneasiness. 

The  captain,  in  his  honor,  would  as  soon  as  thought  of 
opening  the  parcel  one  hour  before  the  expiration  of  the 
term,  as  he  would  have  thought  of  opening  himself,  to 
study  his  own  anatomy.  He  merely  brought  it  out,  at  a 
certain  stage  of  his  first  evening  pipe,  laid  it  on  the  table, 
and  sat  gazing  at  the  outside  of  it,  through  the  smoke,  in 
silent  gravity,  for  two  or  three  hours  at  a  spell.  Sometimes, 
when  he  had  contemplated  it  thus  for  a  pretty  long  while, 
the  captain  would  hitch  his  chair  by  degrees  farther  and 
farther  off,  as  if  to  get  beyond  the  range  of  its  fascination  ; 
but  if  this  were  his  design,  he  never  succeeded  ;  for  even 
when  he  was  brought  up  by  the  parlor  wall,  the  packet 
still  attracted  him  ;  or  his  eyes,  in  thoughtful  wandering, 
roved  to  the  ceiling  or  the  fire,  its  image  immediately  fol- 
lowed, and  posted  itself  conspicuously  among  the  coals,  or 
took  up  an  advantageous  position  on  the  whitewash. 

In  respect  of  Heart's  Delight,  the  captain's  parental  re- 
gard and  admiration  knew  no  change.  But  since  his  last 
interview  with  Mr.  Carker,  Captain  Cuttle  had  come  to 
entertain  doubts  whether  his  former  intervention  in  behalf 
of  that  young  lady  and  his  dear  boy  Wal'r  had  proved 
altogether  so  favorable  as  he  could  have  wished,  and  as  he 
at  the  time  believed.  The  captain  was  troubled  with  a 
serious  misgiving  that  he  had  done  more  harm  than  good,  in 
short  ;  and  in  his  remorse  and  modesty,  he  made  the  best 
atonement  he  could  think  of,  by  putting  himself  out  of  the 
way  of  doing  any  harm  to  any  one,  and,  as  it  were,  throwing 
himself  overboard  for  a  dangerous  person. 

Self-buried,  therefore,  among  the  instruments,  the  captain 
never  went  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  or  reported  himself 
in  any  way  to  Florence  or  Miss  Nipper.  He  even  severed 
himself  from  Mr.  Perch,  on  the  occasion  of  his  next  visit, 
by  dryly  informing  that  gentleman  that  he  thanked  him  for 
his  company,  but  had  cut  himself  adrift  from  all  such 
acquaintance,  as  he  didn't  know  what  magazine  he  might  blow 
up,  without  meaning  of  it.  In  this  self-imposed  retirement, 
the  captain  passed  whole  days  and  weeks  without  inter- 
changing a  word  with  any  one  but  Rob  the  grinder,  whom 
he  esteemed  as  a  pattern  of  disinterested  attachment  and 
fidelity.     In    this    retirement,    the    captain,    gazing   at   the 


544  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

packet  of  an  evening,  would  sit  smoking,  and  thinking  oi 
Florence  and  poor  Walter,  until  they  both  seemed  to  his 
homely  fancy  to  be  dead,  and  to  have  passed  away  into 
eternal  youth,  the  beautiful  and  innocent  children  of  his  first 
remembrance. 

The  captain  did  not,  however,  in  his  musings,  neglect  his 
own  improvement,  or  the  mental  culture  of  Rob  the 
grinder.  That  young  man  was  generally  required  to  read 
out  of  some  book  to  the  captain  for  one  hour  every  even- 
ing ;  and  as  the  captain  implicitly  believed  that  all  books 
were  true,  he  accumulated,  by  this  means,  many  remarkable 
facts.  On  Saturday  nights  the  captain  always  read  for  him- 
self, before  going  to  bed  a  certain  divine  sermon  once  de- 
livered on  a  mount  ;  and  although  he  was  accustomed  to 
quote  the  text,  without  book,  after  his  own  manner,  he  ap- 
peared to  read  it  with  as  reverent  an  understanding  of  its 
heavenly  spirit  as  if  he  had  got  it  all  by  heart  in  Greek,  and 
had  been  able  to  write  any  number  of  fierce  theological  dis- 
quisitions on  its  every  phrase. 

Rob  the  grinder,  whose  reverence  for  the  inspired  writ- 
ings, under  the  admirable  system  of  the  grinders'  school, 
had  been  developed  by  a  perpetual  bruising  of  his 
intellectual  shins  against  all  the  proper  names  of  all  the 
tribes  of  Judah,  and  by  the  monotonous  repetition  of  hard 
verses,  especially  by  way  of  punishment,  and  by  the  parad- 
ing of  him  at  six  years  old  in  leather  breeches,  three  times 
a  Sunday,  very  high  up,  in  a  very  hot  church,  with  a  great 
organ  buzzing  against  his  drowsy  head,  like  an  exceedingly 
busy  bee — Rob  the  grinder  made  a  mighty  show  of  being 
edified  when  the  captain  ceased  to  read,  and  generally 
yawned  and  nodded  while  the  reading  was  in  progress. 
The  latter  fact  being  never  so  much  as  suspected  by  the 
good  captain. 

Captain  Cuttle,  also  a  man  of  business,  took  to  keeping 
books.  In  these  he  entered  observations  on  the  weather, 
and  on  the  currents  of  the  wagons  and  other  vehicles  ;  which 
he  observed,  in  that  quarter,  to  set  westward  in  the  morning 
and  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  eastward  to- 
ward the  evening.  Two  or  three  stragglers  appearing  in 
one  week,  who  "spoke  him" — so  the  captain  entered  it — on 
the  subject  of  spectacles,  and  who,  without  positively  pur- 
chasing, said  they  would  look  in  again,  the  captain  decided 
that  the  business  was  improving,  and  made  an  entry  in  the 
day-book  to  that  effect  ;  the  wind  then  blowing  (which  he 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  545 

first    recorded)    pretty    fresh,    west   and  by  north  ;    having 
changed  in  the  night. 

One  of  the  captain's  chief  difficulties  was  Mr.  Toots, 
who  called  frequently,  and  who  without  saying  much  seemed 
to  have  an  idea  that  the  little  back  parlor  was  an  eligible 
room  to  chuckle  in,  as  he  would  sit  and  avail  himself  of  its 
accommodations  in  that  regard  by  the  half-hour  together, 
without  at  all  advancing  in  intimacy  with  the  captain.  The 
captain  rendered  cautious  by  his  late  experience,  was  una- 
ble quite  to  satisfy  his  mind  whether  Mr.  Toots  w^as  the 
mild  subject  he  appeared  to  be,  or  was  a  profoundly  artful 
and  dissimulating  hypocrite.  His  frequent  reference  to 
Miss  Dombey  was  suspicious  ;  but  the  captain  had  a  secret 
kindness  for  Mr.  Toots's  apparent  reliance  on  him,  and 
forbore  to  decide  against  him  for  the  present ;  merely  eymg 
him,  with  a  sagacity  not  to  be  described,  whenever  he  ap- 
proached the  subject  that  was  nearest  to  his  heart. 

"Captain  Gills,"  blurted  out  Mr.  Toots  one  day  all  at 
once,  as  his  manner  was,  "  do  you  think  favorably  of  that 
proposition  of  mine,  and  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance  ?" 

"Why,  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain, 
who  had  at  length  concluded  on  a  course  of  action  ;  "  I've 
been  turning  that  there  over." 

"Captain  Gills,  it's  very  kind  of  you,"  retorted  Mr.  Toots. 
"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.     Upon  my  word  and   honor. 
Captain  Gills,  it  would  be  a  charity  to  give  me  the  pleasure 
of  your  acquaintance.     It  really  would." 

"  You  see  brother,"  argued  the  captain,  slowly,  "  I  don't 
know  you." 

"  But  you  never  ca7i  know  me.  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  steadfast  to  his  point,  "  if  you  don't  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

The  captain  seemed  struck  by  the  originality  and  power 
of  this  remark,  and  looked  at  Mr.  Toots  as  if  he  thought 
there  was  a  great  deal  more  in  him  than  he  had  expected. 
"Well  said,  my  lad,"  observed  the  captain,  nodding  his 
head  thoughtfully  ;  "  and  true.  Now  lookee  here  ;  You've 
made  some  observations  to  me,  which  gives  me  to^^  under- 
stand as  you  admire  a  certain  sweet  creetur.     Hey  ? " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  gesticulating  violently 
with  the  hand  in  which  he  held  his  hat,  "  Admiration  is  not 
the  word.  Upon  my  honor,  you  have  no  conception  what 
my  feeUngs  are.     If  I  could  be  dyed  black,  and  made  Miss 


546  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Dombey's  slave,  I  should  consider  it  a  compliment.  If,  at 
the  sacrifice  of  all  my  property,  I  could  get  transmigrated 
into  Miss  Dombey's  dog — I — I  really  think  I  should  never 
leave  off  wagging  my  tail.  I  should  be  so  perfectly  happy, 
Captain  Gills  !  " 

Mr.  Toots  said  it  with  watery  eyes,  and  pressed  his  hat 
against  his  bosom  with  deep  emotion. 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  moved  to  compassion, 
"  if  you're  in  arnest — " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  cried  Mr.  Toots,  "  I'm  in  such  a  state 
of  mind  and  am  so  dreadfully  in  earnest,  that  if  I  could 
swear  to  it  upon  a  hot  piece  of  iron,  or  a  live  coal,  or  melted 
lead,  or  burning  sealing-wax,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort,  I 
should  be  glad  to  hurt  myself,  as  a  relief  to  my  feelings." 
And  Mr.  Toots  looked  hurriedly  about  the  room,  as  if  for 
some  sufficiently  painful  means  of  accomplishing  his  dread 
purpose. 

The  captain  pushed  his  glazed  hat  back  upon  his  head, 
stroked  his  face  down  with  his  heavy  hand — making  his 
nose  more  mottled  in  the  process — and  planting  himself 
before  Mr.  Toots,  and  hooking  him  up  by  the  lapel  of  his 
coat,  addressed  him  in  these  words,  while  Mr.  Toots  looked 
up  into  his  face,  with  much  attention  and  some  wonder. 

"  If  you're  in  arnest,  you  see,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain, 
"  you're  a  object  of  clemency,  and  clemency  is  the  brightest 
jewel  in  the  crown  of  a  Briton's  head,  for  which  you'll  over- 
haul the  constitution  as  laid  down  in  Rule  Britannia,  and,, 
when  found,  that  is  the  charter  as  them  garden  angels  was 
a  singing  of,  so  many  times  over.  Stand  by  !  This  here 
proposal  o'  your'n  takes  me  a  little  aback.  And  why  ?' 
Because  I  holds  my  own  only,  you  understand,  in  these 
here  waters,  and  haven't  got  no  consort,  and  maybe  don't 
wish  for  none.  Steady!  You  hailed  me  first,  along  for  a 
certain  young  lady,  as  you  was  chartered  by.  Now  if  you 
and  me  is  to  keep  one  another's  company  at  all,  that  there 
young  creetur's  name  must  never  be  named  nor  referred  to. 
I  don't  know  what  harm  mayn't  have  been  done  by  naming 
of  it  too  free  afore  now,  and  thereby  I  brings  up  short. 
D'ye  make  me  out  pretty  clear,  brother  ?" 

"Well,  you'll  excuse  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr. 
Toots,  "  if  I  don't  quite  follow  you  sometimes.  But  upon 
my  word  I — it's  a  hard  thing.  Captain  Gills,  not  to  be  able 
to  mention  Miss  Dombey.  I  really  have  got  such  a  dread- 
ful load  here  !  " — Mr,  Toots   pathetically  touched  his  shirt- 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  547 

front  with  both  hands — "  then  I  feel,  night  and  day,  exactly 
as  if  some  body  was  sitting  upon  me." 

"  Them,"  said  the  captain,  "  is  the  terms  I  offer.  If  they're 
hard  upon  you,  brother,  as  mayhap  they  are,  give  'em  a 
wide  berth,  sheer  off,  and  part  company  cheerily  !  " 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  hardly  know 
how  it  is,  but  after  what  you  told  me  when  I  came  here  for 
the  first  time,  I — I  feel  that  I'd  rather  think  about  Miss 
Dombey  in  your  society  than  talk  about  her  in  almost  any 
body  else's.  Therefore,  Captain  Gills,  if  you'll  give  me  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  I  shall  be  very  happy  to 
accept  it  on  your  own  conditions.  I  wish  to  be  honorable, 
Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  back  his  extended 
hand  for  a  moment,  "  and  therefore  I  am  obliged  to  say 
that  I  can  not  help  thinking  about  Miss  Dombey.  It's  impos- 
sible forme  to  make  a  promise  not  to  think  about  her." 

''  My  lad,"  said  the  captain,  whose  opinion  of  Mr.  Toots 
was  much  improved  by  this  candid  avowal,  "  a  man's 
thoughts  is  like  the  winds,  and  nobody  can't  answer  for 
'em  for  certain,  any  length  of  time  together.  Is  it  a  treaty 
as  to  words  ?  " 

"  As  to  words.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  I 
think  I  can  bind  myself  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  hand  upon  it,  then  and 
there  ;  and  the  captain,  with  a  pleasant  and  gracious  show 
of  condescension,  bestowed  his  acquaintance  upon  him  for- 
mally. Mr.  Toots  seemed  much  relieved  and  gladdened  by 
the  acquisition,  and  chuckled  rapturously  during  the 
remainder  of  his  visit.  The  captain,  for  his  part  was  not  ill 
pleased  to  occupy  that  position  of  patronage,  and  was  exceed- 
ingly well  satisfied  by  his  own  prudence  and  foresight. 

But  rich  as  Captain  Cuttle  was  in  the  latter  quality,  he 
received  a  surprise  that  same  evening  from  a  no  less  ingen- 
uous and  simple  youth  than  Rob  the  grinder.  That  artless 
lad,  drinking  tea  at  the  same  table,  and  bending  meekly 
over  his  cup  and  saucer,  having  taken  sidelong  observations 
of  his  master  for  some  time,  who  was  reading  the  newspaper 
with  great  difficulty,  but  much  dignity,  through  his  glasses, 
broke  silence  by  saying, 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  captain,  but  you  mayn't  be  in 
want  of  any  pigeons,  may  you,  sir  ? " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain. 

"  Because  I  was  wishing  to  dispose  of  mine,  captain,"  said 
Rob, 


548  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Ay,  ay  ? "  cried  the  captain,  lifting  up  his  bushy  eye- 
brows a  little. 

"  Yes  ;  I'm  going,  captain,  if  you  please,"  said  Rob. 

"  Going  ?     Where  are    you  going  ? "  asked   the    captain, 
looking  round  at  him  over  the  glasses. 

"  What  ?  didn't  you  know  that  I  was  going  to  leave  you, 
captain  ?  "  asked  Rob,  with  a  sneaking  smile. 

The  captain  put  down  the  paper,  took  off  his  spectacles, 
and  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  on  the  deserter. 

"  Oh  yes,  captain,  I  am  going  to  give  you  warning.  I 
thought  you'd  have  known  that  beforehand,  perhaps,"  said 
Rob,  rubbing  his  hands,  and  getting  up.  "  If  you  could  be 
so  good  as  to  provide  yourself  soon,  captain,  it  would  be  a 
great  convenience  to  me.  You  couldn't  provide  yourself  by 
to-morrow  morning,  I  am  afraid,  captain  ;  could  you,  do  you 
think  ? " 

"  And  you're  going  to  desert  your  colors,  are  you,  my 
lad  !  "  said  the  captain,  after  a  long  examination  of  his 
face. 

"  Oh,  it's  very  hard  upon  a  cove,  captain,"  cried  the  ten- 
der Rob,  injured  and  indignant  in  a  moment,  "  that  he  can't 
give  lawful  warning,  without  being  frowned  at  in  that  way, 
and  called  a  deserter.  You  haven't  any  right  to  call  a  poor 
cove  names,  captain.  It  ain't  because  I'm  a  servant  and 
you're  a  master,  that  you're  to  go  and  libel  me.  What  wrong 
have  I  done  ?  Come,  captain,  let  me  know  what  my  crime 
is,  will  you  ?  " 

The  stricken  grinder  wept,  and  put  his  coat-cuff  in  his 
eye. 

"Come,  captain,"  cried  the  injured  youth,  "  give  my  crime 
a  name  !  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  Have  I  stolen  any 
of  the  property  ?  have  I  set  the  house  a  fire  ?  If  I  have, 
why  don't  you  give  me  in  charge,  and  try  it  ?  But  to  take 
away  the  character  of  a  lad  that's  been  a  good  servant  to 
you,  because  he  can't  afford  to  stand  in  his  own  light  for 
your  good,  what  a  injury  it  is,  and  what  a  bad  return  for 
faithful  service  !  This  is  the  way  young  coves  is  spiled  and 
drove  wrong.     I  wonder  at  you,  captain,  I  do." 

All  of  which  the  grinder  howled  forth  in  a  lachrymose 
whine,    and  backing  carefully  toward  the  door. 

"  And  so  you've  got  another  berth,  have  you,  my  lad  ? " 
said  the  captain,  eyeing  him  intently. 

"  Yes,  captain,  since  you  put  it  in  that  shape,  I  have  got 
another  berth,"    cried   Rob,   backing  more  and  more;  "a 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  549 

better  berth  than  I've  got  here,  and  one  where  I  don't  so 
much  as  want  your  good  word,  captain,  which  is  fort'nate 
for  me,  after  all  the  dirt  you've  throw'd  at  me,  because  I'm 
poor,  and  can't  afford  to  stand  in  my  own  light  for  your 
good.  Yes,  I  Jiave  got  another  berth  ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for 
leaving  you  unprovided,  captain,  go  to  it  now  sooner  than 
I'd  take  them  names  from  you,  because  I'm  poor,  and  can't 
afford  to  stand  in  my  own  light  for  your  good,  captain  ? 
How  can  you  so  demean  yourself  ?  " 

"  Look  ye  here,  my  boy,"  replied  the  peaceful  captain, 
"  don't  you  pay  out  no  more  of  them  words." 

"Well,  then,  don't  you  pay  in  no  more  of  your  words, 
Captain,"  retorted  the  roused  innocent,  getting  louder  in  his 
whine,  and  backing  into  the  shop.  "  I'd  sooner  you  took 
my  blood  than  my  character." 

"Because,"  pursued  the  Captain,  calmly,  "you  have 
heerd,  may  be,  of  such  a  think  as  a  rope's  end." 

"  Oh,  have  I  though,  Captain  ?"  cried  the  taunting 
grinder.  "  No,  I  haven't.  I  never  heerd  of  any  such  a 
article  !" 

"  Well,"  said  the  captain,  "  it's  my  belief  as  you'll  know 
more  about  it  pretty  soon,  if  you  don't  keep  a  J3right  look- 
out.    I  can  read  your  signals  my  lad.     You  may  go." 

"  Oh  !  I  may  go  at  once,  may  I,  captain  ?"  cried  Rob, 
exulting  in  his  success.  "  But  mind  !  I  never  asked  to  go  at 
once,  captain.  You  are  not  to  take  away  my  character 
again,  because  you  send  me  off  of  your  own  accord.  You 
are  not  to  stop  any  of  my  wages,  captain  !" 

His  employer  settled  the  last  point  by  producing  the  tin 
canister  and  telling  the  grinder's  money  out  in  full  upon  the 
table.  Rob,  sniveling  and  sobbing,  and  grievously  wounded 
in  his  feelings,  took  up  the  pieces  one  by  one,  with  a  sob  and 
a  snivel  for  each,  and  tied  them  up  separately  in  knots  in  his 
pocket-handkerchief ;  then  he  ascended  to  the  roof  of  the 
house  and  filled  his  hat  and  pockets  with  pigeons  ;  then 
came  down  to  his  bed  under  the  counter  and  made  up  his 
bundle,  sniveling  and  sobbing  louder,  as  if  he  were  cut  to 
the  heart  by  old  associations  ;  then  he  whined,  "  Good- 
night captain.  I  leave  you  without  malice  !"  and  then,  go- 
ing out  upon  the  doorstep,  pulled  the  little  midshipman's 
nose  as  a  parting  indignity,  and  went  away  down  the  street 
grinning  triumph. 

The  captain,  left  to  himself,  resumed  his  perusal  of  the 
news  as  if  nothing  unusual  or  unexpected  had  taken  place, 


550  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

and  went  reading  on  with  the  greatest  assiduity.  But  never  a 
word  did  Captain  Cuttle  understand,  though  he  read  a  vast 
number,  for  Rob  the  grinder  was  scampering  up  one  column 
and  down  another  all  through  the  newspaper. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  worthy  Captain  had  ever  felt 
himself  quite  abandoned  until  now  ;  but  now,  old  Sol  Gills, 
Walter,  and  Heart's  Delight  were  lost  to  him  indeed,  and 
now  Mr.  Carker  deceived  and  jeered  him  cruelly.  They 
were  all  represented  in  the  false  Rob,  to  whom  he  had  held 
forth  many  a  time  on  the  recollections  that  were  warm  with- 
in him  ;  he  had  believed  in  the  false  Rob,  and  had  been 
glad  to  believe  in  him  ;  he  had  made  a  companion  of  him 
as  the  last  of  the  old  ship's  company  ;  he  had  taken  the 
command  of  the  little  midshipman  with  him  at  his  right 
hand  ;  he  had  meant  to  do  his  duty  by  him,  and  had  felt 
almost  as  kindly  toward  the  boy  as  if  they  had  been  ship- 
wrecked and  cast  upon  a  desert  place  together.  And  now, 
that  the  false  Rob  had  brought  distrust,  treachery  and  mean- 
ness into  the  very  parlor,  which  was  a  kind  of  sacred  place, 
Captain  Cuttle  felt  as  if  the  parlor  might  have  gone  down 
next,  and  not  suprised  him  much  by  its  sinking,  or  giving 
him  any  very  great  concern. 

Therefore  Captain  Cuttle  read  the  newspaper  with  pro- 
found attention  and  no  comprehension,  and  therefore  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  said  nothing  whatever  about  Rob  to  himself,  or 
admitted  to  himself  that  he  was  thinking  about  him  or  would 
recognize  in  the  most  distant  manner  that  Rob  had  any 
thing  to  do  with  the  feeling,  as  lonely  as  Robinson  Crusoe. 

In  the  same  composed,  business-like  way,  the  captain 
stepped  over  to  Leadenhall  market  in  the  dusk,  and  effected 
an  arrangement  with  a  private  watchman  on  duty  there  to 
come  and  put  up  and  take  down  the  shutters  of  the  wooden 
midshipman  every  night  and  morning.  He  then  called  in 
at  the  eatinghouse  to  diminish  by  one-half  the  daily  rations 
theretofore  supplied  to  the  midshipman,  and  at  the  public- 
house  to  stop  the  traitor's  beer.  "  My  young  man,"  said 
the  captain,  in  explanation  to  the  young  lady  at  the  bar, 
"my  young  man  having  bettered  himself,  miss."  Lastly, 
the  captain  resolved  to  take  possession  of  the  bed  under  the 
counter,  and  to  turn  in  there  o'  nights  instead  of  up  stairs, 
as  sole  guardian  of  the  property. 

From  this  bed  Captain  Cuttle  daily  rose  thenceforth,  and 
clapped  on  his  glazed  hat  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
with  the   solitary  air  of  Crusoe  finishing  his  toilet  with  his 


DOMBEV  AND  SON.  551 

goat-skin  cap  ;  and  although  his  fears  of  a  visitation  from 
the  savage  tribe,  MacStinger,  were  somewhat  cooled,  as 
similar  apprehensions  on  the  part  of  that  lone  mariner  used 
to  be  by  the  lapse  of  a  long  interval  without  any  symptoms 
of  the  cannibals,  he  still  observed  a  regular  routine  of  defen- 
sive operations,  and  never  encountered  a  bonnet  without 
previous  survey  from  his  castle  of  retreat.  In  the  meantime, 
(during  which  he  received  no  call  from  Mr,  Toots,  who 
wrote  to  say  he  was  out  of  town)  his  own  voice  began  to 
have  a  strange  sound  in  his  ears  ;  and  he  acquired  such 
habits  of  profound  meditation  from  much  polishing  and 
stowing  away  of  the  stock,  and  from  much  sitting  behind 
the  counter  reading,  or  looking  out  of  window,  that  the  red 
rim  made  on  his  forehead  by  the  hard  glazed  hat  sometimes 
ached  again  with  excess  of  reflection. 

The  year  being  now  expired,  Captain  Cuttle  deemed  it 
expedient  to  open  the  packet  ;  but  as  he  had  always  designed 
doing  this  in  the  presence  of  Rob  the  grinder,  who  had 
brought  it  to  him,  and  as  he  had  an  idea  that  it  would  be 
regular  and  ship-shape  to  open  it  in  the  presence  of  some- 
body, he  was  sadly  put  to  it  for  want  of  a  witness.  In  this 
difficulty,  he  hailed  one  day  with  unusual  delight  the 
announcement  in  the  Shipping  Intelligence  of  the  arrival  of 
the  Cautious  Clara,  Captain  John  Bunsby,  from  a  coasting 
voyage  ;  and  to  that  philosopher  immediately  dispatched  a 
letter  by  post,  enjoining  inviolable  secrecy  as  to  his  place  of 
residence,  and  requesting  to  be  favored  with  an  early  visit 
in  the  evening  season. 

Bunsby,  who  was  one  of  those  sages  who  act  upon  con- 
viction, took  some  days  to  get  the  conviction  thoroughly 
into  his  mind  that  he  had  received  a  letter  to  this  effect. 
But  when  he  had  grappled  with  the  fact,  and  mastered  it, 
he  promptly  sent  his  boy  with  the  message,  "  He's  a-coming 
to-night."  Who  being  instructed  to  deliver  those  words  and 
disappear,  fulfilled  his  mission  like  a  tarry  spirit  charged 
with  a  mysterious  warning. 

The  captain,  well  pleased  to  receive  it,  made  preparation 
of  pipes  and  rum  and  water,  and  awaited  his  visitor  in  the 
back  parlor.  At  the  hour  of  eight,  a  deep  lowing,  as  of  a 
nautical  bull,  outside  the  shop  door,  succeeded  by  the 
knocking  of  a  stick  on  the  panel,  announced  to  the  listening 
ear  of  Captain  Cuttle  that  Bunsby  was  alongside  ;  whom  he 
instantly  admitted,  shaggy  and  loose,  and  with  his  stolid 
mahogany  visage,  as  usual,  appearing  to  have  no  conscious- 


552  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

ness  of  any  thing  before  it,  but  to  be  attentively  observing 
something  that  was  taking  place  in  quite  another  part  of  the 
world. 

"  Bunsby,"  said  the  captain,  grasping  him  by  the  hand, 
"  what  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  " 

"  Shipmet,"  replied  the  voice  within  Bunsby,  unaccom- 
panied by  any  sign  on  the  part  of  the  commander  himself, 
"hearty,  hearty." 

"Bunsby!"  said  the  captain,  rendering  irrepressible 
homage  to  his  genius,  "  here  you  are  !  a  man  as  can  give  an 
opinion  as  is  brighter  than  di'monds — and  give  me  the  lad 
with  the  tarry  trowsers  as  shines  to  me  like  di'monds  bright, 
for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  StanfelCs  Budget,  and  when 
found  make  a  note.  Here  you  are,  a  man  as  gave  an  opinion 
in  this  here  very  place,  that  has  come  true,  every  letter  on 
it,"  which  the  captain  sincerely  believed. 

"  Ay,  ay  ?  "  growled  Bunsby. 

"  Every  letter,"  said  the  captain. 

"  For  why  ? "  growled  Bunsby,  looking  at  his  friend  for 
the  first  time.  "  Which  way  ?  If  so,  why  not  ?  Therefore." 
With  these  oracular  words — they  seemed  almost  to  make  the 
captain  giddy  ;  they  launched  him  upon  such  a  sea  of 
speculation  and  conjecture — the  sage  submitted  to  be  helped 
off  with  his  pilot-coat,  and  accompanied  his  friend  into  the 
back  parlor,  where  his  hand  presently  alighted  on  the  rum- 
bottle,  from  which  he  brewed  a  stiff  glass  of  grog  ;  and  pre- 
sently afterward  on  a  pipe,  which  he  filled,  lighted,  and 
began  to  smoke. 

Captain  Cuttle,  imitating  his  visitor  in  the  matter  of  these 
particulars,  though  the  rapt  and  imperturbable  manner  of 
the  great  com^nander  was  far  above  his  powers,  sat  in  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  fireside,  observing  him  respectfully, 
and  as  if  he  waited  for  some  encouragement  or  expression 
of  curiosity  on  Bunsby's  part  which  should  lead  him  to  his 
own  affairs.  But  as  the  mahogany  philosopher  gave  no 
evidence  of  being  sentient  of  any  thing  but  warmth  and 
tobacco,  except  once,  when  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips  to 
make  room  for  his  glass,  he  incidentally  remarked,  with 
exceeding  gruffness,  that  his  name  was  Jack  Bunsby — a 
declaration  that  presented  but  small  opening  for  conversa- 
tion— the  captain  bespeaking  his  attention  in  a  short  com- 
plimentary exordium,  narrated  the  whole  history  of  Uncle 
Sol's  departure,  with  the  change  it  had  produced  in  his  own 
life  and  fortunes  ;  and  concluded  by  placing  the  packet  on 
the  table. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  553 

After  a  long  pause,  Mr.  Bunsby  nodded  his  head. 

"  Open  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Bunsby  nodded  again. 

The  captain  accordingly  broke  the  seal,  and  disclosed  to 
view  two  folded  papers,  of  which  he  severally  read  the 
indorsements,  thus  :  "  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Solomon 
Gills."     "  Letter  for  Ned  Cuttle." 

Bunsby,  with  his  eye  on  the  coast  of  Greenland,  seemed 
to  listen  for  the  contents.  The  Captain  therefore  hemmed 
to  clear  his  throat,  and  read  the  letter  aloud. 

"  My  dear  Ned  Cuttle.  When  I  left  home  for  the  West 
Indies—'  " 

Here  the  captain  stopped  and  looked  hard  at  Bunsby, 
who  looked  fixedly  at  the  coast  of  Greenland, 

— "  '  In  forlorn  search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear  boy,  T 
knew  that  if  you  wtre  acquainted  with  my  design,  you 
would  thwart  it,  or  accompany  me  ;  and  therefore  I  kept  it 
secret.  If  you  ever  read  this  letter,  Ned,  I  am  likely  to  be 
dead.  You  will  easily  forgive  an  old  friend's  folly  then,  and 
you  will  feel  for  the  restlessness  and  uncertainty  in  which  he 
wandered  away  on  such  a  wild  voyage.  So  no  more  of  that. 
I  have  little  hope  that  my  poor  boy  will  ever  read  these 
words,  or  gladden  your  eyes  with  the  sight  of  his  frank  face 
any  more.'  No,  no  ;  no  more,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  sorro\v- 
fully  meditating ;  "  no  more.  There  he  lays,  all  his 
days — " 

Mr.  Bunsby,  who  had  a  musical  ear,  suddently  bellowed, 
"  In  the  Bays  of  Biscay,  oh  !  "  which  so  effected  the  captain, 
as  an  appropriate  tribute  to  departed  worth,  that  he  shook 
him  by  the  hand  in  acknowledgement,  and  was  fain  to  wipe 
his  eyes. 

"  Well,  well  !"  said  the  captain,  with  a  sigh,  as  the 
lament  of  Bunsby  ceased  to  ring  and  vibrate  in  the  sky- 
light. "  Affliction  sore  long  time  he  bore,  and  let  us  over- 
haul the  wollume,  and  there  find  it." 

"  Physicians,"  observed  Bunsby,  "  was  in  vain." 

''Ah,  ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  captain,  "what's  the  good 
'o  ^/lem  in  two  or  three  hundred  fathoms  o'  water  I"  Then 
returning  to  the  letter  he  read  on  : — "  '  But  if  they  should 
be  by  when  it  is  opened  ;'  "  the  captain  involuntarily  looked 
round,  and  shook  his  head  ;  "  '  or  should  know  of  it  at  ^any 
other  time  ;'  "  the  captain  shook  his  head  again  ;  "  '  my 
blessing  on  him  !  In  case  the  accompanying  paper  is  not 
legally    written,    it   matters   very  little,  for  there  is  no  one 


554  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

interested  but  you  and  he,  and  my  plain  wish  is,  that  if  he  is 
living  he  should  have  what  little  there  may  be,  and  if  (as  I 
fear)  otherwise,  that  you  should  have  it,  Ned.  You  will 
respect  my  wish,  I  know.  God  bless  you  for  it,  and  for  your 
friendliness  besides,  to  Solomon  Gills.'  Bunsby  !"  said 
the  captain,  appealing  to  him  solemnly,  "  what  do  you  make 
of  this  ?  There  you  sit,  a  man  as  has  had  his  head  broke 
from  infancy  up'ard,  and  has  got  a  new  opinion  into  it  at 
every  seem  as  has  been  opened.  Now  what  do  you  make  o' 
this  ?" 

"If  so  be,"  returned  Bunsby,  with  unusual  promptitude, 
".as  he's  dead,  my  opinion  is,  he  won't  come  back  no  more. 
If  so  be  as  he's  alive,  my  opinion  is,  he  will.  Do  I  say  he 
will  ?  No.  Why  not  ?  Because  the  bearings  of  this  ob- 
serwation  lays  in  the  application  on  it." 

"  Bunsby,"  said  Captain  Cuttle,  who  would  seem  to  have 
estimated  the  value  of  his  own  distinguished  friend's  opin- 
ions in  proportion  to  the  immensity  of  the  difficulty  he 
experienced  in  making  any  thing  out  of  them  ;  "Bunsby,"  said 
the  captain,  quite  confounded  by  admiration,  "  you  carry  a 
weight  of  mind  easy,  as  would  swamp  one  of  my  tonnage 
soon.  But  in  regard  o'  this  here  will,  I  don't  mean  to  take 
any  steps  towards  the  property — Lord  forbid  ! — except  to 
keep  it  for  a  more  rightful  owner  ;  and  I  hope  yet,  as  the 
rightful  owner,  Sol  Gills,  is  living  and'U  come  back,  strange 
as  it  is  that  he  ain't  forwarded  no  dispatches.  Now,  what  is 
your  opinion,  Bunsby,  as  to  stowing  of  these  here  papers 
away  again,  and  marking  outside  as  they  was  opened,  such 
a  day,  in  presence  of  John  Bunsby  and  Ed'ard  Cuttle  ?" 

Bunsby,  descrying  no  objection,  on  the  coast  of  Green- 
land or  elsewhere,  to  this  proposal,  it  was  carried  into  execu- 
tion ;■  and  that  great  man,  bringing  his  eye  into  the  present 
for  a  moment,  affixed  his  sign-manual  to  the  cover,  totally 
abstaining,  with  characteristic  modesty,  from  the  use  of 
capital  letters.  Captain  Cuttle,  having  attached  his  own 
left-handed  signature,  and  locked  up  the  packet  in  the  iron 
safe,  entreated  his  guest  to  mix  another  glass  and  smoke 
another  pipe  ;  and  doing  the  like  himself,  fell  a-musing  over 
the  fire  on  the  possible  fortunes  of  the  poor  old  instrument- 
maker. 

And  now  a  surprise  occured,  so  overwhelming  and  terrific 
that  Captain  Cuttle,  unsupported  by  the  presence  of  Bunsby, 
must  have  sunk  beneath  it,  and  been  a  lost  man  from  that 
fatal  hour. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  555 

How  the  captain,  even  in  the  satisfaction  of  admitting 
such  a  guest,  could  have  only  shut  the  door,  and  not  locked 
it,  of  which  negligence  he  was  undoubtedly  guilty,  is  one  of 
those  questions  that  must  forever  remain  mere  points  of 
speculation,  or  vague  charges  against  destiny.  But  by  that 
unlocked  door,  at  this  quiet  moment,  did  the  fell  MacStinger 
dash  into  the  parlor,  bringing  Alexander  MacStinger  in  her 
parental  arms,  and  confusion  and  vengence  (not  to  mention 
Juliana  MacStinger,  and  the  sweet  child's  brother, 
Charles  MacStinger,  popularly  known  about  the  scene  of  his 
youthful  sports  as  Chowley)  in  her  train.  She  came  so 
swiftly  and  so. silently,  like  a  rushing  air  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  East  India  Docks,  that  Captain  Cuttle  found 
himself  in  the  very  act  of  sitting  looking  at  her,  before  the 
calm  face  with  which  he  had  been  meditating,  changed  to 
one  of  horror  and  dismay. 

But  the  moment  Captain  Cuttle  understood  the  full 
extent  of  his  misfortune,  self-preservation  dictated  an 
attempt  at  flight.  Darting  at  the  little  door  which  opened 
from  the  parlor  on  the  steep  little  range  of  cellar-steps,  the 
captain  made  a  rush,  head  foremost,  at  the  latter,  like  a  man 
indifferent  to  bruises  and  contusions,  who  only  sought  to 
hide  himself  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  In  this  gallant 
effort  he  would  probably  have  succeeded,  but  for  the  affec- 
tionate dispositions  of  Juliana  and  Chowley,  who  pinning 
him  by  the  legs — one  of  those  dear  children  holding  on  to 
each — claimed  him  as  their  friend,  with  lamentable  cries. 
In  the  meantime,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who  never  entered 
upon  any  action  of  importance  without  previously  inverting 
Alexander  MacStinger,  to  bring  him  within  the  range  of  a 
brisk  battery  of  slaps,  and  then  sitting  him  down  to  cool  as 
the  reader  first  beheld  him,  performed  that  solemn  rite,  as  if 
on  this  occasion  it  were  a  sacrifice  to  the  furies  ;  and  having 
deposited  the  victim  on  the  floor,  made  at  the  captain  with 
a  strength  of  purpose  that  appeared  to  threaten  scratches 
to  the  interposing  Bunsby. 

The  cries  of  the  two  elder  MacStingers,  and  the  wailing 
of  young  Alexander,  who  may  be  said  to  have  passed  a  pie- 
bald childhood,  forasmuch  as  he  was  black  in  the  face 
during  one  half  of  that  fairy  period  of  existence,  combined 
to  make  this  visitation  the  more  awful.  But  when  silence 
reigned  again,  and  the  captain,  in  a  violent  perspiration, 
stood  meekly  looking  at  Mrs,  MacStinger,  its  terrors  were 
at  their  height, 


5S6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  Cup'en  Cuttle  !  "  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger,  making  her  chin  rigid,  and  shaking  it  in  unison  with 
what,  but  for  the  weakness  of  her  sex,  might  be  described  as 
her  fist.  "Oh,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  do  you  dare  to 
look  me  in  the  face,  and  not  be  struck  down  in  the  herth  !  " 

The  captain,  who  looked  any  thing  but  daring,  feebly 
muttered  "  Stand  by  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  was  a  weak  and  trusting  fool  when  I  took  you 
under  my  roof,  Cap'en  Cuttle,  I  was  !  "  cried  Mrs.  MacStin- 
ger.  "  To  think  of  the  benefits  I've  showered  on  that  man, 
and  the  way  in  which  I  brought  my  children  up  to  love  and 
honor  him  as  if  he  was  a  father  to  'em  when  there  ain't  a 
'ousekeeper,  no,  nor  a  lodger  in  our  street,  don't  know  that 
I  lost  money  by  that  man,  and  by  his  guzzlings  and  his 
muzzlings  " — Mrs.  MacStinger  used  the  last  word  for  the 
joint  sake  of  alliteration  and  aggravation,  rather  than  for  the 
expression  of  any  idea — "  and  when  they  cried  out  one  and 
all,  shame  upon  him  for  putting  upon  an  industrious  woman, 
up  early  and  late  for  the  good  of  her  young  family,  and 
keeping  her  poor  place  so  clean  that  an  individual  might 
have  ate  his  dinner,  yes,  and  his  tea  too,  if  he  was  so  dis- 
posed, off  any  one  of  the  floors  or  stairs,  in  spite  of  all  his 
guzzlings  and  his  muzzlings,  such  was  the  care  and  pain 
bestowed  upon  him  !  " 

Mrs.  MacStinger  stopped  to  fetch  her  breath  ;  and  her 
face  flushed  with  triumph  in  this  second  happy  introduction 
of  Captain  Cuttle's  muzzlings. 

"  And  he  runs  awa-a-a-ay  !  "  cried  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with 
a  lengthening  out  of  the  last  syllable  that  made  the  unfortu- 
nate captain  regard  himself  as  the  meanest  of  men  ;  "  and 
keeps  away  a  twelvemonth  !  From  a  woman  !  Sitch  is  his 
conscience  !  He  hasn't  the  courage  to  meet  her  hi-i-i-igh  ;  " 
long  syllable  again  ;  "  but  steals  away,  like  a  felion.  Why, 
if  that  baby  of  mine,"  said  Mrs.  MacStinger,  with  sudden 
rapidity,  "  was  to  offer  to  go  and  steal  away,  I'd  do  my 
duty  as  a  mother  by  him,  till  he   was   covered  with  wales  !  " 

The  young  Alexander,  interpreting  this  into  a  positive 
promise,  to  be  shortly  redeemed,  tumbled  over  with  fear 
and  grief,  and  lay  upon  the  floor,  exhibiting  the  soles  of  his 
shoes  and  making  such  a  deafening  outcry,  that  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger found  it  necessary  to  take  him  up  in  her  arms, 
where  she  quieted  him,  ever  and  anon,  as  he  broke  out 
again,  by  a  shake  that  seemed  enough  to  loosen  his  teeth. 

"  A  pretty  sort  of  a  man  is  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  Ma^- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  557 

Stinger,  with  a  sharp  stress  on  the  first  syllable  of  the  cap- 
tain's name,  "  to  take  on  for — and  to  lose  sleep  for — and  to 
faint  along  of — and  to  think  dead  forsooth — and  to  go  up 
and  down  the  blessed  town  like  a  mad  woman,  asking 
questions  after  !  Oh,  a  pretty  sort  of  a  man  !  Ha,  ha,  ha, 
ha  !  He's  worth  all  that  trouble  and  distress  of  mind,  and 
much  more.  Thafs  nothing,  bless  you  !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
Cap'en  Cuttle,"  said  Mrs.  AlacStinger,  with  severe  reaction 
in  her  voice  and  manner,  "  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a-com- 
ing  home." 

The  frightened  captain  looked  into  his  hat,  as  if  he  saw 
nothing  for  it  but  to  put  it  on,  and  give  himself  up. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  repeated  Mrs.  MacStinger,  in  the  same 
determined  manner,  ''  I  wish  to  know  if  you're  a-coming 
home,  sir." 

The  captain  seemed  quite  ready  to  go,  but  faintly  sug- 
gested something  to  the  effect  of  "  not  making  so  much 
noise  about  it." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  said  Bunsby,  in  a  soothing  tone.  "  Awast, 
my  lass,  awast  !  " 

"  And  who  may  you  be,  if  you  please  !  "  retorted  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  with  chaste  loftiness.  "  Did  you  ever  lodge  at 
number  nine,  Brig  place,  sir  ?  My  memory  may  be  bad, 
but  not  with  me,  I  think.  There  was  a  Mrs.  Jollson  lived 
at  number  nine  before  me,  and  perhaps  you're  mistaking 
me  for  her.  That  is  the  only  way  of  accounting  for.  your 
familiarity,  sir." 

"  Come,  come,  my  lass,  awast  !  "  said  Bunsby. 

Captain  Cuttle  could  hardly  believe  it,  even  of  this  great 
man,  though  he  saw  it  done  with  his  waking  eyes  ;  but 
Bunsby,  advancing  boldly,  put  his  shaggy  blue  arm  round 
Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  so  softened  her  by  his  magic  way  of 
doing  it,  and  by  these  few  words — he  said  no  more — that 
she  melted  into  tears,  after  looking  upon  him  for  a  few 
moments,  and  observed  that  a  child  might  conquer  her 
now,  she  was  so  low  in  her  courage. 

Speechless  and  utterly  amazed,  the  captain  saw  him 
gradually  persuade  this  inexorable  woman  into  the 
shop,  return  for  rum  and  water  and  a  candle,  take 
them  to  her,  and  pacify  her  without  appearing  to  utter 
one  word.  Presently,  he  looked  in  with  his  pilot-coat  on, 
and  said,  "  Cuttle,  I'm  going  to  act  as  convoy  home  ;  "  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  more  to  his  confusion  than  if  he  had  been 
put  in  irons  himself,  for  safe  transport  to  Brig  place,  saw 


555  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

the  family  pacifically  filing  off,  with  Mrs.  MacStinger  at 
their  head.  He  had  scarcely  time  to  take  down  his  can- 
ister, and  stealthily  convey  some  money  into  the  hands  of 
Juliana  MacStinger,  his  former  favorite,  and  Chowley,  who 
had  the  claim  upon  him  that  he  was  naturally  of  a  maritime 
build,  before  the  midshipman  was  abandoned  by  them  all  ; 
and  Bunsby  whispering  that  he'd  carry  on  smart,  and  hail 
Ned  Cuttle  again  before  he  went  aboard,  shut  the  door 
upon  himself,  as  the  last  member  of  the  party. 

Some  uneasy  ideas  that  he  must  be  walking  in  his  sleep, 
or  that  he  had  been  troubled  with  phantoms,  and  not  a 
family  of  flesh  and  blood,  beset  the  captain  at  first,  when  he 
Avent  back  to  the  little  parlor  and  found  himself  alone. 
Illimitable  faith  in,  and  immeasurable  admiration  of,  the 
commander  of  the  Cautions  Clara,  succeeded,  and  threw 
the  captain  into  a  wondering  trance. 

Still,  as  time  wore  on,  and  Bunsby  failed  to  re-appear, 
the  captain  began  to  entertain  uncomfortable  doubts  of 
another  kind.  Whether  Bunsby  had  been  artfully  decoyed 
to  Brig  place,  and  w^as  there  detained  in  safe  custody  as  host- 
age for  his  friend  ;  in  which  case  it  would  become  the  cap- 
tain, as  a  man  of  honor,  to  release  him,  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
own  liberty.  Whether  he  had  been  attacked  and  defeated 
by  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  was  ashamed  to  show  himself  after 
his  discomfiture.  Whether  Mrs.  MacStinger,  thinking  bet- 
ter of  it,  in  the  uncertainty  of  her  temper,  had  turned  back 
to  board  the  midshipman  again,  and  Bunsby,  pretending  to 
conduct  her  by  a  short  cut,  was  endeavoring  to  lose  the 
family  amidst  the  wilds  and  savage  places  of  the  city. 
Above  all,  what  it  would  behoove  him.  Captain  Cuttle,  to 
do,  in  case  of  his  hearing  no  more,  either  of  the  MacStingers 
or  of  Bunsby,  which,  in  these  wonderful  and  unforeseen 
conjunctions  of  events,  might  possibly  happen. 

He  debated  all  this  until  he  was  tired  ;  and  still  no 
Bunsby.  He  made  up  his  bed  under  the  counter,  all  ready 
for  turning  in  ;  and  still  no  Bunsby.  At  length,  when  the 
captain  had  given  him  up,  for  that  night  at  least,  and  had 
begun  to  undress,  the  sound  of  approaching  wheels  was 
heard,  and  stopping  at  the  door,  was  succeeded  by  Bunsby's 
hail. 

The  captain  trembled  to  think  that  Mrs.  MacStinger  was 
not  to  be  got  rid  of,  and  had  been  brought  back  in  a  coach. 

But  no.  Bunsby  was  accompanied  by  nothing  but  a  large 
))Qx,  which  h?  h^yled  into  the  shop  with  hi§  Qwn  hands, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  SJ^ 

and  as  soon  as  he  had  hauled  in,  sat  upon.  Captain  Cuttle 
knew  it  for  the  chest  he  had  left  at  Mrs.  MacStinger's 
house,  and  looking,  candle  in  hand,  at  Bunsby  more  atten- 
tively,' believed  that  he  was  three  sheets  in  the  wind,  or,  in 
plain  words,  drunk.  It  was  difficult,  however,  to  be  sure  of 
this  ;  the  commander  having  no  trace  of  expression  in  his 
face  when  sober. 

"  Cuttle,"  said  the  commander,  getting  off  the  chest,  and 
opening  the  lid,  "  are  these  here  your  traps  ?  " 

Captain  Cuttle  looked  in  and   identified  his  property. 
''  Done  pretty  taut  and  trim,   hey  shipmet  ? "  said  Buns- 
by. 

The  grateful  and  bewildered  captam  grasped  him  by  the 
hand,  and  was  launching  into  a  reply  expressive  of  his 
astonished  feelings,  when  Bunsby  disengaged  himself  by  a 
jerk  of  his  wrist,  and  seemed  to  make  an  effort  to  wink  with 
his  revolving  eye,  the  only  affect  of  which  attempt,  in  his 
condition,  was  nearly  to  overbalance  him.  He  then  abruptly 
opened  the  door,  and  shot  away  to  rejoin  the  Cautious  Clara 
with  all  speed — supposed  to  be  his  invariable  custom,  when- 
ever he  considered  he  had  made  a  point. 

As  it    was    not  his  humor  to  be  often   sought.    Captain 
Cuttle  decided  not  to   go  or  send  to  him  next  day,  or  until 
he  should  make  his  gracious  pleasure  known  in  such  wise, 
or,  failing  that,  until  some  little  time   should  have  elapsed. 
The  captain,  therefore*  renewed  his  solitary  life  next  morn- 
ing,   and  thought  profoundly,  many    mornings,  noons   and 
nights,  of  old  Sol   Gills,  and  Bunsby's   sentiments  concern- 
ing him,  and  the  hopes  there  were  of  his  return.     Much  of 
such    thinking    strengthened  Captain  Cuttle's  hopes  ;  and 
he    humored      them  and  himself    by     watching    for      the 
instrument-maker  at  the  door  as  he  ventured    to   do  now, 
in  his   strange  liberty— and   setting  his   chair  in   its  place, 
and  arranging   the  little  parlor  as   it  used   to  be,  in  case  he 
should  come  home  unexpectedly.   He  likewise,  in  his  thought- 
fulness,  took  down  a  certain  little  miniature    of  Walter  as  a 
school-boy,  from  its  accustomed  nail,  lest  it  should  shock  the 
old  man  on  his  return.     The   captain  had  his  presentments, 
too,   sometimes,  that  he  would  come  on  such   a    day  ;  and 
one  particular  Sunday  even  ordered  a  double  allowance  of 
dinner,    he  was   so  sanguine.     But  come   old  Solomon  did 
not  ;  and    still  the  neighbors  noticed  how    the   sea-faring 
man  in  the  glazed  hat  stood  at  the  shop  door  of  an  evening, 
looking  up  and  down  the  street. 


560  DOMBEY  ANt)  SON. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

DOMESTIC    RELATIONS. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  Mr. 
Dombeys'  mood,  opposed  to  such  a  spirit  as  he  had  raised 
against  himself,  should  be  softened  in  the  imperious  asperity 
of  his  temper  ;  or  that  the  cold,  hard  armor  of  pride  in 
which  he  lived  encased  should  be  made  more  flexible  by 
constant  collision  with  haughty  scorn  and  defiance.  It  is 
the  curse  of  such  a  nature — it  is  a  main  part  of  the  heavy 
retribution  on  itself  it  bears  within  itself — that  while  defer- 
ence and  concession  swells  its  evil  qualities,  and  are  the 
food  it  grows  upon,  resistance  and  a  questioning  of  its 
exacting  claims,  foster  it  too,  no  less.  The  evil  that  is  in  it 
finds  equally  its  means  of  growth  and  propagation  in 
opposites.  It  draws  support  and  life  from  sweets  and 
bitters  ;  bowed  down  before,  or  unacknowledged,  it  still 
enslaves  the  breast  in  which  it  has  its  throne  ;  and,  worshiped 
or  rejected,  is  as  hard  a  master  as  the  devil  in  dark  fables  . 

Toward  his  first  wife,  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  cold  and  lofty 
arrogance,  had  borne  himself  like  the  removed  being  he 
almost  conceived  himself  to  be.  He  had  been  ''  Mr.  Dom- 
bey "  with  her  when  she  first  saw  him,  and  he  was  "  Mr. 
Dombey  "  when  she  died.  He  had 'asserted  his  greatness 
during  their  whole  married  life,  and  she  had  meekly  recog- 
nized it.  He  had  kept  his  distant  seat  of  state  on  the  top 
of  his  throne,  and  she  her  humble  station  on  its  lowest  step  ; 
and  much  good  it  had  done  him,  so  to  live  in  solitary 
bondage  to  his  one  idea  !  He  had  imagined  that  the  proud 
character  of  his  second  wife  would  have  been  added  to  his 
own — would  have  merged  into  it,  and  exalted  his  greatness. 
He  had  pictured  himself  haughtier  than  ever,  with  Edith's 
haughtiness  subservient  to  his.  He  had  never  entertained 
the  possibility  of  its  arraying  itself  against  him.  And  now, 
when  he  found  it  rising  in  his  path  at  every  step  and  turn  of 
his  daily  life,  fixing  its  cold,  defiant,  and  contemptuous  face 
upon  him,  this  pride  of  his,  instead  of  withering,  or  hanging 
down  its  head  beneath  the  shock,  put  forth  new  shoots, 
became  more  concentrated  and  intense,  more  gloomy,  sullen, 
irksome,  and  unyielding,  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

Who  wears  such  armor,  too,  bears  with  him  ever  another 
heavy  retribution.     It  is  of  proof  against  conciliation,  love, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  561 

and  confidence  !  against  all  gentle  sympathy  from  without, 
all  trust,  all  tenderness,  all  soft  emotion  ;  but  to  deep  stabs 
in  the  self-love,  it  is  as  vulnerable  as  the  bare  breast  to  steel  ; 
and  such  tormenting  festers  rankle  there,  as  follow  on  no 
other  wounds,  no,  though  dealt  with  the  mailed  hand  of 
pride  itself,  on  weaker  pride,  disarmed  and  thrown  down. 

Such  wounds  were  his.  He  felt  them  sharply,  in  the 
solitude  of  his  old  rooms  ;  whither  he  now  began  often  to 
retire  again,  and  pass  long,  solitary  hours.  It  seemed  his 
fate  to  be  ever  proud  and  powerful  ;  ever  humbled  and 
powerless  where  he  would  be  most  strong.  Who  seemed 
fated  to  work  out  that  doom  ? 

Who  ?  Who  was  it  who  could  win  his  wife  as  she  had 
won  his  boy  !  Who  was  it  who  had  shown  him  that  new 
victory,  as  he  sat  in  the  dark  corner  !  Who  was  it  whose 
least  word  did  what  his  utmost  means  could  not  ?  Who  was 
it  who,  unaided  by  his  love,  regard  or  notice,  thrived  and 
grew  beautiful  when  those  so  aided  died  !  Who  could  it  be, 
but  the  same  child  at  whom  he  had  often  glanced  uneasily 
in  her  motherless  infancy,  with  a  kind  of  dread,  lest  he 
might  come  to  hate  her  ;  and  of  whom  his  foreboding  was 
fulfilled,  for  he  did  hate  her  in  his  heart. 

Yes,  and  he  would  have  it  hatred,  and  he  made  it  hatred, 
though  some  sparkles  of  the  light  in  which  she  had  appeared 
before  him  on  the  memorable  night  of  his  return  home  with 
his  bride  occasionally  hung  about  her  still.  He  knew  now 
that  she  was  beautiful ;  he  did  not  dispute  that  she  was 
graceful  and  winning,  and  that  in  the  bright  dawn  of  her 
womanhood  she  had  come  upon  him,  a  surprise.  But  he 
turned  even  this  against  her.  In  his  sullen  and  unwholesome 
brooding,  the  unhappy  man,  with  a  dull  perception  of  his 
alienation  from  all  hearts,  and  a  vague  yearning  for  what  he 
had  all  his  life  repelled,  made  a  distorted  picture  of  his 
rights  and  wrongs,  and  justified  himself  with  it  against  her. 
The  worthier  she  promised  to  be  of  him,  the  greater  claim 
he  was  disposed  to  antedate  upon  her  duty  and  submission. 
When  had  she  ever  shown  him  duty  and  submission  ?  Did 
she  grace  his  life — or  Edith's  ?  Had  her  attractions  been 
manifested  first  to  him — or  Edith  ?  Why,  he  and  she  had 
never  been,  from  her  birth,  like  father  and  child  !  They 
had  always  been  estranged.  She  had  crossed  him  every 
way  and  everywhere.  She  was  leagued  against  him  now. 
Her  very  beauty  softened  natures  that  were  obdurate  to  him, 
and  insulted  him  with  an  unnatural  triumpb. 


562  DOMBEV  AND  SDR 

It  may  have  been  that  in  all  this  there  were  mutterings  of 
an  awakened  feeling  in  his  breast,  however  selfishly  aroused 
by  his  position  of  disadvantage,  in  comparison  with  what 
she  might  have  made  his  life.  But  he  silenced  the  distant 
thunder  with  the  rolling  of  his  sea  of  pride.  And  in  his 
pride,  a  heap  of  inconsistency,  and  misery,  and  self-inflicted 
torment,  he  hated  her. 

To  the  moody,  stubborn,  sullen  demon,  that  possessed 
him,  his  wife  opposed  her  different  pride  in  its  full  force. 
They  never  could  have  led  a  happy  life  together  ;  but  nothing 
could  have  made  it  more  unhappy  than  the  willful  and  deter- 
mined warfare  of  such  elements.  His  pride  was  set  upon 
maintaining  his  magnificent  supremacy,  and  forcing  recog- 
nition of  it  from  her.  She  would  have  been  racked  to  death, 
and  turned  but  her  haughty  glance  of  calm,  inflexible  disdain 
upon  him,  to  the  last.  Such  recognition  from  Edith  !  He 
little  knew  through  what  a  storm  and  struggle  she  had  been 
driven  onward  to  the  crowning  honor  of  his  hand.  He  little 
knew  how  much  she  thought  she  had  conceded,  when  she 
suffered  him  to  call  her  wife. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  resolved  to  show  her  that  he  was 
supreme.  There  must  be  no  will  but  his.  Proud  he  desired 
that  she  should  be,  but  she  must  be  proud  for,  not  against 
him.  As  he  sat  alone,  hardening,  he  would  often  hear  her 
go  out  and  come  home,  treading  the  round  of  London  life 
with  no  more  heed  of  his  liking  or  disliking,  pleasure  or 
displeasure,  than  if  he  had  been  her  groom.  Her  cold, 
supreme  indifference — his  own  unquestioned  attribute 
usurped — stung  him  more  than  any  other  kind  of  treatment 
could  have  done  ;  and  he  determined  to  bend  her  to  his 
magnificent  and  stately  will. 

He  had  been  long  communing  with  these  thoughts,  when 
one  night  he  sought  her  in  her  own  apartment,  after  he  had 
heard  her  return  home  late.  She  was  alone,  in  her  brilliant 
dress,  and  had  but  that  moment  come  from  her  mother's 
room.  Her  face  was  melancholy  and  pensive,  when  he 
came  upon  her  ;  but  it  marked  him  at  the  door  ;  for  glanc- 
ing at  the  mirror  before  it,  he  saw  immediately,  as  in  a 
picture-frame,  the  knitted  brow,  and  darkened  beauty  that 
he  knew  so  well. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  said,  entering,  "  I  must  beg  leave  to 
have  a  few  words  with  you." 

"  To-morrow,"  she  replied. 

*'  There  is  no  time  like  the  present,  madam,"  he  returned. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  563 

"  You  mistake  your  position.  I  am  used  to  choose  my  own 
times  ;  not  to  have  them  chosen  for  me.  I  think  you 
scarcely  understand  who  and  what  I  am,  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey." 

"  I  think,"  she  answered,  that  I  understand  you  very 
well." 

She  looked  upon  him  as  she  said  so,  and  folding  her  white 
arms,  sparkling  with  gold  and  gems,  upon  her  swelling  breast, 
turned  away  her  eyes. 

If  she  had  been  less  handsome,  and  less  stately  in  her 
cold  composure,  she  might  not  have  had  the  power  of 
impressing  him  with  a  sense  of  disadvantage  that  penetrated 
through  his  utmost  pride.  But  she  had  the  power,  and  he 
felt  it  keenly.  He  glanced  round  the  room  ;  saw  how  the 
splendid  means  of  personal  adornment  and  the  luxuries  of 
dress  were  scattered  here  and  there,  and  disregarded  ;  not 
in  mere  caprice  and  carelessness  (or  so  he  thought),  but  in  a 
steadfast,  haughty  disregard  of  costly  things  ;  and  felt  it 
more  and  more.  Chaplets  of  flowers,  plumes  of  feathers, 
jewels,  laces,  silks  and  satins  ;  look  where  he  would,  he  saw 
riches,  despised,  poured  out,  and  made  of  no  account. 
The  very  diamonds — a  marriage  gift — that  rose  and  fell 
impatiently  upon  her  bosom,  seemed  to  pant  to  break  the 
chain  that  clasped  them  round  her  neck,  and  roll  down  on 
the  floor  where  she  might  tread  upon  them. 

He  felt  his  disadvantage,  and  he  showed  it.  Solemn  and 
strange  among  this  wealth  of  color  and  voluptuous  glitter, 
strange  and  constrained  toward  its  haughty  mistress,  whose 
repellent  beauty  it  repeated,  and  presented  all  round  him, 
as  in  so  many  fragments  of  a  mirror,  he  was  conscious  of 
embarassment  and  awkwardness.  Nothing  that  ministered 
to  her  disdainful  self-possession  could  fail  to  gall  him. 
Galled  and  irritated  with  himself,  he  sat  down,  and  went  on 
in  no  improved  humor  : 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  it  is  very  necessary  that  there  should  be 
some  understanding  arrived  at  between  us.  Your  conduct 
does  not  please  me,  madam." 

She  merely  glanced  at  him  again,  and  again  averted  her 
eyes  ;  but  she  might  have  spoken  for  an  hour,  and  expressed 
less. 

"  I  repeat,  Mrs.  Dombey  does  not  please  me.  I  have  al- 
ready taken  occasion  to  request  that  it  may  be  corrected.  I 
now  insist  upon  it." 

"  You  chose  a  fitting  occasion  for  your  first  remonstrance, 


5(54  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

sir,  and  you  adopt  a  fitting  manner  and  a  fitting  word  for 
your  second.      You  insist  !     To  me  T 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  most  offensive  air 
ot  state,  "  I  have  made  you  my  wife.  You  bear  my  name, 
you  are  associated  with  my  position  and  my  reputation.  I 
will  not  say  that  the  M'orld  in  general  may  be  disposed  to 
think  you  honored  by  that  association  ;  but  I  will  say  that 
I  am  accustomed  to  *  insist,'  to  my  connections  and  de- 
pendents." 

"  What  may  you  be  pleased  to  consider  me  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Possibly,  I  may  think  that  my  wife  should  partake — or 
does  partake,  and  can't  help  herself — of  both  characters, 
Mrs.  Dombey." 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  him  steadily,  and  set  her  trembling 
lips.  He  saw  her  bosom  throb,  and  saw  her  face  flush  and 
turn  white.  All  this  he  could  know,  and  did  ;  but  he  could 
not  know  that  one  word  was  whispering  in  the  deep  recesses 
of  her  heart  to  keep  her  quiet ;  and  that  the  word  was 
Florence. 

Blind  idiot,  rushing  to  a  precipice  !  He  thought  she 
stood  in  awe  of  him  ! 

''  You  are  too  expensive,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey 
"  You  are  extravagent.  You  waste  a  good  deal  of  money — 
or  what  would  be  a  great  deal  in  the  pockets  of  most  gentle- 
men— in  cultivating  a  kind  of  society  that  is  useless  to  me, 
and,  indeed,  that  upon  the  whole  is  disagreeable  to  me.  I 
have  to  insist  upon  a  total  change  in  all  these  respects.  I 
know  that  in  the  novelty  of  possessing  a  tithe  of  such 
means  as  fortune  has  placed  at  your  disposal,  ladies  are  apt 
to  run  into  a  sudden  extreme.  There  has  been  more  than 
enough  of  that  extreme.  I  beg  that  Mrs.  Granger's  very 
different  experiences  may  now  come  to  the  instruction  of 
Mrs.  Dombey." 

Still  the  fixed  look,  the  trembling  lips,  the  throbbing 
breast,  the  face  now  crimson  and  now  white  ;  and  still  the 
deep  whisper  Florence,  Florence,  speaking  to  her  in  the 
beating  of  her  heart. 

His  insolence  of  self-importance  dilated  as  he  saw  this 
alteration  in  her.  Swollen  no  less  by  her  past  scorn  of  him, 
and  his  so  recent  feeling  of  disadvantage,  than  by  her  pres- 
ent submission  (as  he  took  it  to  be),  it  became  too  mighty 
for  his  breast,  and  burst  all  bounds.  Why,  who  could  long 
resist  his  lofty  will  and  pleasure  !  He  had  resolved  to  con- 
quer her,  and  look  here. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  565 

**  You  will  further  please,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in 
a  tone  of  sovereign  command,  "  to  understand  distinctly 
that  I  am  to  be  deferred  to  and  obeyed.  That  I  must  have 
a  positive  show  and  confession  of  deference  before  the 
world,  madam.  I  am  used  to  this.  I  require  it  as  my 
right.  In  short,  I  will  have  it.  I  consider  it  no  unreasona- 
ble return  for  the  worldly  advancement  that  has  befallen 
you  ;  and  I  believe  nobody  will  be  surprised,  either  at  its  b^ 
ing  required  from  you,  or  at  your  making  it. — To  Me — To 
Me  !"  he  added,  with  emphasis. 

No  word  from  her.  No  change  in  her.  Her  eyes  upon 
him. 

"  I  have  learned  from  your  mother,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  with  magisterial  importance,  "  vv'hat  no  doubt 
you  know,  namely,  that  Brighton  is  recommended  for  her 
health.     Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good — " 

She  changed  suddenly.  Her  face  and  bosom  glowed  as 
if  the  red  light  of  an  angry  sunset  had  been  flung  upon 
them.  Not  unobservant  of  the  change,  and  putting  his  own 
interpretation  upon  it,  Mr.  Dombey  resumed  ; 

"  Mr.  Carker  has  been  so  good  as  to  go  down  and  secure 
a  house  there,  for  a  time.  On  the  return  of  the  establish- 
ment to  London,  I  shall  take  such  steps  for  its  better  man- 
agement as  I  consider  necessary.  One  of  these  will  be  the 
engagement  at  Brighton  (if  it  is  to  be  effected),  of  a  very 
respectable  reduced  person  there,  a  Mrs.  Pipchin,  formerly 
employed  in  a  situation  of  trust  in  my  family,  to  act  as 
housekeeper.  An  establishment  like  this,  presided  over  but 
nominally,  Mrs.  Dombey,  requires  a  competent  head." 

She  had  changed  her  attitude  before  he  arrived  at  these 
words,  and  now  sat — still  looking  at  him  fixedly — turning  a 
bracelet  round  and  round  upon  her  arm  ;  not  winding  it 
about  with  a  light,  womanly  touch,  but  pressing  and  drag- 
ging it  over  the  smooth  skin,  until  the  white  limb  showed  a 
bar  of  red. 

"  I  observed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey — "  and  this  concludes 
what  I  deem  it  necessary  to  say  to  you  at  present,  Mrs. 
Dombey — I  observed  a  moment  ago,  madam,  that  my 
allusion  to  Mr.  Carker  was  received  in  a  peculiar  manner. 
On  the  occasion  of  my  happening  to  point  out  to  you, 
before  that  confidential  agent,  the  objection  I  had  to  your 
mode  of  receiving  my  visitors,  you  were  pleased  to  object 
to  his  presence.  You  will  have  to  get  the  better  of  that 
objection,  madam,  and  to  accustom  yourself  to  it  very  prob- 


566  DOMBEY   AND   SOR 

ably  on  many  similar  occasion  ;  unless  you  adopt  the 
remedy  which  is  in  your  own  hands,  of  giving  me  no  cause 
of  complaint.  Mr.  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  who,  after 
the  emotion  he  had  just  seen,  set  great  store  by  this  means 
of  reducing  his  proud  wife,  and  who  was  perhaps  sufficiently 
willing  to  exhibit  his  powers  to  that  gentleman  in  a  new 
and  triumphant  aspect,  "  Mr.  Carker  being  in  my  confidence, 
Mrs.  Dombey,  may  very  well  be  in  yours  to  such  an  extent. 
I  hope,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  continued,  after  a  few  moments, 
during  which,  in  his  increasing  haughtiness,  he  had  improved 
on  his  idea,  "  I  may  not  find  it  necessary  ever  to  intrust  Mr. 
Carker  with  any  message  of  objection  or  remonstrance  to 
you  ;  but  as  it  would  be  derogatory  to  my  position  and 
reputation  to  be  frequently  holding  trivial  disputes  with  a 
lady  upon  whom  I  have  conferred  the  highest  distinction 
that  it  is  in  my  power  to  bestow,  I  shall  not  scruple  to  avail 
myself  of  his  service  if  I  see  occasion." 

"  And  now,"  he  thought,  rising  in  his  moral  magnificence, 
and  rising  a  stiffer  and  more  impenetrable  man  than  ever, 
"  she  knows  me  and  my  resolution." 

The  hand  that  had  so  pressed  the  bracelet  was  laid 
heavily  upon  her  breast,  but  she  looked  at  him  still,  with  an 
unaltered  face,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Wait  !  For  God's  sake  !  I  must  speak  to  you."  Why 
did  she  not,  and  what  was  the  inward  struggle  that  rendered 
her  incapable  of  doing  so,  for  minutes,  while,  in  the  strong 
constraint  she  put  upon  her  face,  it  was  as  fixed  as  any 
statue's — looking  upon  him  with  neither  yielding  nor 
unyielding,  liking  nor  hatred,  pride  nor  humility  ;  nothing 
but  a  searching  gaze. 

"  Did  I  ever  tempt  you  to  seek  my  hand  ?  Did  I  ever 
use  any  art  to  win  you  ?  Was  I  ever  more  conciliating  to 
you  when  you  pursued  me,  than  I  have  been  since  our 
marriage  ?     Was  I  ever  other  to  you  than  I  am  ?  " 

"  It  is  wholly  unnecessary,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  to  enter  upon  such  discussions," 

"  Did  you  think  I  loved  you  ?  Did  you  know  I  did  not  ? 
Did  you  ever  care,  man  !  for  my  heart,  or  propose  to  your- 
self to  win  the  worthless  thing  ?  Was  there  any  poor  pre- 
tense of  any  in  our  bargain  ?  Upon  your  side,  or  on 
mine  ? " 

"  These  questions,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  are  all  wide  of 
the  purpose,  madam." 

She   moved  between   him  and  the  door    to  prevent  his 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  567 

going  away,  and,  drawing  her  majestic   figure   to  its  height, 
looked  steadily  upon  him  still. 

"  You  answer  each  of  them.  You  answer  me  before  I 
speak,  I  see.  How  can  you  help  it  ;  you  who  know  the 
miserable  truth  as  well  as  I  ?  Now,  tell  me.  If  I  loved  you 
to  devotion  could  I  do  more  than  render  up  my  whole  will 
and  being  to  you,  as  you  have  just  demanded  }  If  my  heart 
were  pure  and  all  untried,  and  you  its  idol,  could  you  ask 
more  ;  could  you  have  more  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not,  madam,"  he  returned,  coolly. 

"  You  know  how  different  I  am.  You  see  me  looking  on 
you  now,  and  you  can  read  the  warmth  of  passion  for  you 
that  is  breathing  in  my  face."  Not  a  curl  of  the  proud  lip, 
flash  of  the  dark  eye,  nothing  but  the  same  intent  and 
searching  look,  accompanied  these  words.  '^  You  know  my 
general  history.  You  have  spoken  of  my  mother.  Do  you 
think  you  can  degrade,  or  bend  or  break,  ?/ie  to  submission 
and  obedience  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  smiled,  as  he  might  have  smiled  at  an  in- 
quiry whether  he  thought  he  could  raise  ten  thousand  pounds. 

"If  there  is  any  thing  unusual  here,"  she  said,  with  a 
slight  motion  of  her  hand  before  her  brow,  which  did  not 
for  a  moment  flinch  from  its  immovable  and  otherwise 
expressionless  gaze,  "  as  I  know  there  are  unusual  feelings 
here,"  raising  the  hand  she  pressed  upon  her  bosom,  and 
heavily  returning  it,  "  consider  that  there  is  no  common 
meaning  in  the  appeal  I  am  going  to  make  you.  Yes,  for 
I  am  going  ;  "  she  said  it  as  in  prompt  reply  to  something  in 
his  face  ;  ''  to  appeal  to  you." 

Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  slightly  condescending  bend  of  his 
chin  that  rustled  and  crackled  his  stiff  cravat,  sat  down  on 
a  sofa  that  was  near  him,  to  hear  the  appeal. 

"  If  you  can  believe  that  I  am  of  such  a  nature  now  " — 
he  fancied  he  saw  tears  glistening  in  her  eyes,  and  he 
thought,  complacently,  that  he  had  forced  them  from  her, 
though  none  fell  on  her  cheek,  and  she  regarded  him  as 
steadily  as  ever — "  as  would  make  what  I  now  say  almost 
incredible  to  myself,  said  to  any  man  who  had  become  my 
husband,  but,  above  all,  said  to  you,  you  may,  perhaps, 
attach  the  greater  weight  to  it.  In  the  dark  end  to  which 
we  are  tending,  and  may  come,  we  shall  not  involve  our- 
selves alone  (that  might  not  be  much),  but  others." 

Others  I  He  knew  at  whom  the  word  pointed,  and 
frQ\yned  heavil)^, 


S68  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

**  I  speak  to  you  for  the  sake  of  others.  Also  your  own 
sake  ;  and  for  mine.  Since  our  marriage  you  have  been 
arrogant  to  me  ;  and  I  have  repaid  you  in  kind.  You  have 
shown  to  me  and  every  one  around  us,  every  day  and  hour, 
that  you  think  I  am  graced  and  distinguished  by  your 
alliance.  I  do  not  think  so,  and  have  shown  that  too.  It 
seems  you  do  not  understand,  or  (so  far  as  your  power  can 
go)  intend  that  each  of  us  shall  take  a  separate  course  ;  and 
you  expect  from  me  instead  a  homage  you  will  never 
have." 

Although  her  face  was  still  the  same,  there  was  emphatic 
confirmation  of  this  "  Never"  in  the  very  breath  she  drew. 

"  I  feel  no  tenderness  toward  you  ;  that  you  know.  You 
would  care  nothing  for  it  if  I  did  or  could.  I  know  as  well 
that  you  feel  none  toward  me.  But  we  are  linked 
together  ;  and  in  the  knot  that  ties  us,  as  I  have  said,  others 
are  bound  up.  We  must  both  die  ;  we  are  both  connected 
with  the  dead  already,  each  by  a  little  child.  Let  us  for- 
bear." 

Mr.  Dombey  took  a  long  respiration,  as  if  he  would  have 
said.  Oh  !  was  this  all  ! 

"  There  is  no  wealth,"  she  went  on,  turning  paler  as  she 
watched  him,  while  her  eyes  grew  yet  more  lustrous  in  their 
earnestness,  "  that  could  buy  those  words  of  me,  and  the 
meanings  that  belong  to  them.  Once  cast  away  as  idle 
breath,  no  wealth  nor  power  can  bring  them  back.  I  mean 
them  ;  I  have  weighed  them  ;  and  I  will  be  true  to  what  I 
undertake.  If  you  will  promise  to  forbear  on  your  part,  I 
will  promise  to  forbear  on  mine.  We  are  a  most  unhappy 
pair,  in  whom,  from  different  causes,  every  sentiment  that 
blesses  marriage,  or  justifies  it,  is  rooted  out  ;  but  in  the 
course  of  time,  some  friendship,  or  some  fitness  for  each 
other,  may  arise  between  us.  I  will  try  to  hope  so,  if  you 
will  make  the  endeavor  too  ;  and  I  will  look  forward  to  a 
better  and  a  happier  use  of  age  than  I  have  made  of  youth 
or  prime." 

Throughout  she  had  spoken  in  a  low  plain  voice,  that 
neither  rose  nor  fell  ;  ceasing,  she  dropped  the  hand  with 
wnich  she  had  enforced  herself  to  be  so  passionless  and 
distinct,  but  not  the  eyes  with  which  she  had  so  steadily  ob- 
served him. 

"Madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  his  utmost  dignity, 
"  I  can  not  entertain  any  proposal  of  this  extraordinary 
nature," 


DOxMEEY   AND    SON.  5<59 

She  looked  at  him  yet,  without  the  least  change. 
"  I  can  not,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  rising  as  he  spoke,  "  con- 
sent to  temporize  or  treat  with  you,  Mrs.  Dombey,  upon  a 
subject  as  to  which  you  are  in  possession  of  my  opinions 
and  expectations.  I  have  stated  my  ultimatum^  madam, 
and  have  only  to  request  your  very  serious  attention  to  it.'' 
To  see  the  face  change  to  its  old  expression,  deepened  in 
intensity  !  To  see  the  eyes  droop  as  from  some  mean  and 
odious  object!  To  see  the  lighting  of  the  haughty  brow  ! 
To  see  scorn,  anger,  indignation,  and  abhorrence  starting 
into  sight,  and  the  pale,  black  earnestness  vanish  like  a  mist  ! 
He  could  not  choose  but  look,  although  he  looked  to  his 
dismay. 

"  Go,  sir  !"  she  said,  pointing  with  an  imperious  hand 
toward  the  door.  "  Our  first  and  last  confidence  is  at  an 
end.  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other  than  we 
are  henceforth." 

"  I  shall  take  my  rightful  course,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  undeterred,  you  may  be  sure,  by  any  general  decla- 
mation." 

She  turned  her  back  upon  him  and,  without  reply,  sat 
down  before  her  glass. 

"  1  place  my  reliance  on  your  improved  sense  of  duty, 
and  more  correct  feeling,  and  better  reflection,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey. 

She  answered  not  one  word.  He  saw  no  more  expression 
of  any  heed  of  him  in  the  mirror,  than  if  he  had  been  an 
unseen  spider  on  the  wall,  or  beetle  on  the  floor,  or  rather, 
than  if  he  had  been  one  or  the  other,  seen  and  crushed 
when  she  last  turned  from  him,  and  forgotten  among  the 
ignominious  and  dead  vermin  of  the  ground. 

He  looked  back,  as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  upon  the 
well-lighted  and  luxurious  room,  the  beautiful  and  glittering 
objects  everywhere  displayed,  the  shape  of  Edith  in  its  rich 
dress  seated  before  her  glass,  and  the  face  of  Edith  as  the 
glass  presented  it  to  him  ;  and  betook  himself  to  his  old 
chamber  of  cogitation,  carrying  away  with  him  a  vivid 
picture  in  his  mind  of  all  these  things,  and  a  rambling  and 
unaccountable  speculation  (such  as  sometimes  comes  into  a 
man's  head)  how  they  would  all  look  when  he  saw  them 
next. 

For  the  rest,  Mr.  Dombey  was  very  taciturn,  and  very 
dignified,  and  very  confident  of  carrying  out  his  purpose  ' 
and  remained  so, 


570  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

He  did  not  design  accompanying  the  family  to  Brighton  ; 
but  he  graciously  informed  Cleopatra  at  breakfast,  on  the 
morning  of  departure,  which  arrived  a  day  or  two  after- 
ward, that  he  might  be  expected  down  soon.  There  was  no 
time  to  be  lost  in  getting  Cleopatra  to  any  place  recom- 
mended as  being  salutary  ;  for,  indeed,  she  seemed  upon  the 
wane,  and  turning  of  the  earth,  earthly. 

Without  having  undergone  any  decided  second  attack  of 
her  malady,  the  old  woman  seemed  to  have  crawled  back- 
ward in  her  recovery  from  the  first.  She  was  more  lean  and 
shrunken,  more  uncertain  in  her  imbecility,  and  made 
stranger  confusions  in  her  mind  and  memory.  Among 
other  symptoms  of  this  last  affliction,  she  fell  into  the  habit 
of  confounding  the  names  of  her  two  sons-in-law,  the  living 
and  the  deceased  ;  and  in  general  called  Mr.  Dombey  either 
"  Grangeby,"  or  '^  Domber,"  or  indifferently  both. 

But  she  was  youthful,  very  youthful  still  ;  and  in  her 
youthfulness  appeared  at  breakfast,  before  going  away,  in  a 
new  bonnet  made  express,  and  a  traveling  robe  that  was 
embroidered  and  braided  like  an  old  baby's.  It  was  not  easy 
to  put  her  into  a  fly-away  bonnet  now,  or  to  keep  the  bonnet 
in  its  place  on  the  back  of  her  poor  nodding  head,  when  it 
was  got  on.  In  this  instance,  it  had  not  only  the  extraneous 
effect  of  being  always  on  one  side,  but  of  being  perpetually 
tapped  on  the  crown  by  Flowers  the  maid,  who  attended  in 
the  background  during  breakfast  to  perform  that  duty. 

*'  Now,  my  dearest  Grangeby,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  "  you 
must  posively  prom,"  she  cut  some  of  her  words  short,  and 
cut  others  altogether,  "  come  down  very  soon." 

"  I  said  just  now,  madam,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  loudly 
and  laboriously,  "  that  I  am  coming  in  a  day  or  two." 

*'  Bless  you,  Domber  !  " 

Here  the  major,  who  was  come  to  take  leave  of  the  ladies, 
and  who  was  staring  through  his  apoplectic  eyes  at  Mrs. 
Skewton's  face,  with  the  disinterested  composure  of  an 
immortal  being,  said  : 

"  Begad,  ma'am,  you  don't  ask  old  Joe  to  come  !  " 

"  Sterious  wretch,  who's  he  ? "  lisped  Cleopatra.  But  a 
tap  on  the  bonnet  from  Flowers  seeming  to  jog  her  memory, 
she  added,  *'  Oh  !  You  mean  yourself,  you  naughty 
creature  !  " 

"Devilish  queer,  sir,"  whispered  the  major  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. "  Bad  case.  Never  ^id  wrap  up  enough  ;  "  the  major 
being  buttoned  to  the  chin,     "  Why,  who  should  J.  B.  mean 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  571 

by  Joe  but  old  Joe  Bagstock — Joseph — your  slave — Joe, 
ma'am  ?  Here  !  Here's  the  man  !  Here  are  the  Bagstock 
bellows,  ma'am  !  "  cried  the  major,  striking  himself  a 
sounding  blow  on  the  chest. 

"  My  dearest  Edith — Grangeby — it's  most  trordinry 
thing,"  said  Cleopatra,  pettishly,  "  that  major — " 

*'  Bagstock  !  J.  B.  !  "  cried  the  Major,  seeing  that  she 
faltered  for  his  name. 

"  Well,  it  don't  matter,"  said  Cleopatra,  "  Edith,  my  love, 
you  know  I  never  could  remember  names — what  was  it  ? 
oh  ! — most  trordinry  thing  that  so  many  people  want  to 
come  down  to  see  me.  I'm  not  going  for  long.  I'm  comirg 
back.     Surely,  they  can  wait  till  I  come  back  !  " 

Cleopatra  looked  all  round  the  table  as  she  said  it,  and 
appeared  very  uneasy. 

"  I  won't  have  visitors — really  don't  want  visitors,"  she 
said  ;  *'  little  repose — and  all  that  sort  of  thing — is  what  I 
quire.  No  odious  brutes  must  proach  me  till  I've  shaken 
off  this  numbness  ;  "  and  in  a  grisly  resumption  of  her 
coquettish  ways,  she  made  a  dab  at  the  major  with  her  fan, 
but  overset  Mr.  Dombey's  breakfast  cup  instead,  which  was 
in  quite  a  different  direction. 

Then  she  called  for  Withers,  and  charged  him  to  see  par- 
ticularly that  word  was  left  about  some  trivial  alterations  in 
her  room,  which  must  be  all  made  before  she  came  back, 
and  which  must  be  set  about  immediately,  as  there  was  no 
saying  how  soon  she  might  come  back  ;  for  she  had  a  great 
many  engagements,  and  all  sorts  of  people  to  call  upon. 
Withers  received  these  directions  with  becoming  deference, 
and  gave  his  guarantee  for  their  execution  ;  but  when  he 
withdrew  a  pace  or  two  behind  her,  it  appeared  as  if  he 
couldn't  help  looking  strangely  at  the  major,  who  couldn't 
help  looking  strangely  at  Mr.  Dombey,  who  couldn't  help 
looking  strangely  at  Cleopatra,  who  couldn't  help  nodding 
her  bonnet  over  one  eye,  and  rattling  her  knife  and  fork 
upon  her  plate  in  using  them,  as  if  she  were  playing  castanets. 

Edith  alone  never  lifted  her  eyes  to  any  face  at  the  table, 
and  never  seemed  dismayed  by  any  thing  her  mother  said  or 
did.  She  listened  to  her  disjointed  talk,  or  at  least  turned 
her  head  toward  her  when  addressed  ;  replied  in  a  few  low 
words  when  necessary  ;  and  sometimes  stopped  her  when 
she  was  rambling,  or  brought  her  thoughts  back  with  a 
monosyllable,  to  the  point  from  which  they  had  strayed. 
The  mother,  however  unsteady  in  other  things,  was  constant 


572  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

in  this — that  she  was  always  observant  of  her.  She  would 
look  at  the  beautiful  face,  in  its  marble  stillness  and  severity, 
now  with  a  kind  of  fearful  admiration  ;  now  in  a  giggling 
foolish  effort  to  move  it  to  a  smile  ;  now  with  capricious 
tears  and  jealous  shakings  of  her  head,  as  imagining  herself 
neglected  by  it  ;  always  with  an  attraction  toward  it,  that 
never  fluctuated  like  her  other  ideas,  but  had  constant  pos- 
session of  her.  From  Edith  she  would  sometimes  look  at 
Florence,  and  back  again  at  Edith,  in  a  manner  that  was 
wild  enough  ;  and  sometimes  she  would  try  to  look  else- 
where, as  if  to  escape  from  her  daughter's  face  ;  but  back 
to  it  she  seemed  forced  to  come,  although  it  never  sought 
hers  unless  sought,  or  troubled  her  with  one  single  glance. 

The  breakfast  concluded,  Mrs.  Skewton,  affecting  to  lean 
girlishly  upon  the  major's  arm,  but  heavily  supported  on  the 
other  side  by  Flowers  the  maid,  and  propped  up  behind  by 
Withers  the  page,  was  conducted  to  the  carriage,  which  was 
to  take  her,  Florence,  and  Edith  to  Brighton. 

"  And  is  Joseph  absolutely  banished  ? "  said  the  major, 
thrusting  in  his  purple  face  over  the  steps.  "  Damme, 
ma'am,  is  Cleopatra  so  hard-hearted  as  to  forbid  her  faithful 
Anthony  Bagstock  to  approach  the  presence  ?" 

"  Go  along  !  "  said  Cleopatra,  "  I  can't  bear  you.  You 
shall  see  me  when  I  come  back,  if  you  are  very  good." 

"  Tell  Joseph  he  may  live  in  hope,  ma'am,"  said  the  major  ; 
"  or  he'll  die  in  despair." 

Cleopatra  shuddered,  and  leaned  back.  "  Edith,  my 
dear,"  she  said.     "  Tell  him—" 

"  What  ? " 

"  Such  dreadful  words,"  said  Cleopatra.  "  He  uses  such 
dreadful  words  !  " 

Edith  signed  to  him  to  retire,  gave  the  word  to  go  on,  and 
left  the  objectionable  major  to  Mr.  Dombey.  To  whom  he 
returned,  whistling. 

*'  ril  tell  you  what,  sir,"  said  the  major,  with  his  hands 
behind  him,  and  his  legs  very  wide  asunder,  "  a  fai^  friend 
of  ours  has  removed  to  Queer  Street." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  major  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  I  mean  to  say,  Dombey,"  returned  the  major,  *'  that 
you'll  soon  be  an  orphan-in-law." 

Mr.  Dombey  appeared  to  relish  this  waggish  description 
of  himself  so  very  little,  that  the  major  wound  up  with  a 
horse's  cough,  as  an  expression  of  gravity. 

''  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  "  there  is  no  use  in  dis- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  573 

guising  a  fact.  Joe  is  blunt,  sir.  That's  his  nature.  If  you 
take  old  Josh  at  all,  you  take  him  as  you  find  him  ;  and  a 
de-vilish  rusty,  old  rasper,  of  a  close-toothed,  J.  B.  file,  you 
do  find  him.  Dombey,"  said  the  major,  "  your  wife's  mother 
is  on  the  move,  sir." 

"  I  fear,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  much  philosophy, 
"that  Mrs.  Skewton  is  shaken." 

''  Shaken,  Dombey  !  "  said  the  major.     "  Smashed  !  " 

"Change,  however,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "and  atten- 
tion may  do  much  yet." 

"  Don't  believe  it,  sir,"  returned  the  major.  "  Damme, 
sir,  she  never  wrapped  up  enough.  If  a  man  don't  wrap  up," 
said  the  major,  taking  in  another  button  of  his  buff  waist- 
coat, "  he  has  nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  But  some  people 
will  die.  They  will  do  it.  Damme,  they  will.  They're  ob- 
stinate. I  tell  you  what,  Dombey,  it  may  not  be  orna- 
mental ;  it  may  not  be  refined  ;  it  may  be  rough  and  tough  ; 
but  a  little  of  the  old  English  Bagstock  stamina,  sir,  would 
do  all  the  good  in  the  world  to  the  human  breed." 

After  imparting  this  precious  piece  of  information,  the 
major,  who  was  certainly  true-blue,  whatever  other  endow- 
ments he  may  have  possessed  or  wanted,  coming  within  the 
"  genuine  old  English"  classification,  which  has  never  been 
exactly  ascertained,  took  his  lobster-eyes  and  his  apoplexy 
to  the  club,  and  choked  there  all  day. 

Cleopatra,  at  one  time  fretful,  at  another  self-complacent, 
sometimes  awake,  and  sometimes  asleep,  at  all  times  juvenile, 
reached  Brighton  the  same  night,  fell  to  pieces  as  usual,  and 
was  put  away  in  bed  ;  where  a  gloomy  fancy  might  have 
pictured  a  more  potent  skeleton  than  the  maid,  who  should 
have  been  one,  watching  at  the  rose-colored  curtains,  which 
were  carried  down  to  shed  their  bloom  upon  her. 

It  was  settled  in  high  council  of  medical  authority  that 
she  should  take  a  carriage  airing  every  day,  and  that  it  was 
important  she  should  get  out  every  day  and  walk,  if  she 
could.  Edith  was  ready  to  attend  her — always  ready  to 
attend  her,  with  the  same  mechanical  attention  and  immov- 
able beauty — and  then  drove  out  alone  ;  for  Edith  had  an 
uneasiness  in  the  presence  of  Florence,  now  that  her  mother 
was  worse,  and  told  Florence,  with  a  kiss,  that  she  would 
rather  they  two  went  alone. 

Mrs.  Skewton,  on  one  peculiar  day,  was  in  the  irresolute, 
exacting,  jealous  temper  that  had  developed  itself  on  her 
recovery  from   the  first  attack.     After  sitting   silent  in  the 


574      *  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

carriage  watching  Edith  for  some  time,  she  took  her  hand 
and  kissed  it  passionately.  The  hand  was  neither  given  nor 
withdrawn,  but  simply  yielded  to  her  raising  of  it,  and  being 
released,  dropped  down  again,  almost  as  if  it  were  insen- 
sible. At  this  she  began  to  whimper  and  moan,  and  say 
what  a  mother  she  had  been,  and  how  she  was  forgotten. 
This  she  continued  to  do  at  capricious  intervals,  even  when 
they  had  alighted  ;  when  she  herself  was  halting  along  with 
the  joint  support  of  Withers  and  a  stick,  and  Edith  was 
walking  by  her  side,  and  the  carriage  slowly  following  at  a 
little  distance. 

It  was  a  bleak,  lowering,  windy  day,  and  they  were 
out  upon  the  downs  with  nothing  but  a  bare  sweep  of  land 
between  them  and  the  sky.  The  mother,  with  a  querulous 
satisfaction  in  the  monotony  of  her  complaint,  was  still  repeat- 
ing it  in  a  low  voice  from  time  to  time,  and  the  proud  form 
of  her  daughter  moved  beside  her  slowly,  when  there  came 
advancing  over  a  dark  ridge  before  them  two  other  figures, 
which,  in  the  distance,  were  so  like  an  exaggerated  imitation 
of  their  own,  that   Edith    stopped. 

Almost  as  she  stopped,  the  two  figures  stopped;  and  that 
one  which  to  Edith's  thinking  was  like  a  distorted  shadow 
of  her  mother,  spoke  to  the  other  earnestly,  and  with  a 
pointing  hand  toward  them.  That  one  seemed  inclined  to 
turn  back,  but  the  other,  in  which  Edith  recognized  enough 
that  was  like  herself  to  strike  her  with  an  unusual  feeling, 
not  quite  free  from  fear,  came  on;  and  then  they  came  on 
together. 

The  greater  part  of  this  observation  she  made  while  walk- 
ing toward  them,  for  her  stoppage  had  been  momentary. 
Nearer  observation  showed  her  that  they  were  poorly  dressed, 
as  wanderers  about  the  country  ;  that  the  younger  woman 
carried  knitted  work  or  some  such  goods  for  sale  ;  and  that 
the  old  one  toiled  on  empty-handed 

And  yet,  however  far  removed  she  was  in  dress,  in  dignity, 
in  beauty,  Edith  could  not  but  compare  the  younger  woman 
with  herself,  still.  It  may  have  been  that  she  saw  upon  her 
face  some  traces  which  she  knew  were  lingering  in  her  own 
soul,  if  not  yet  written  on  that  index  ;  but,  as  the  woman 
came  on,  returning  her  gaze,  fixing  her  shining  eyes  upon 
her,  undoubtedly  presenting  something  of  her  own  air  and 
stature,  and  appearing  to  reciprocate  her  own  thoughts,  she 
felt  a  chill  creep  over  her,  as  if  the  day  were  darkening,  and 
the  wind  were  colder. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  57S 

They  had  now  come  up.  The  old  woman  holding  out  her 
hand  importunately,  stopped  to  beg  of  Mrs.  Skewton.  The 
younger  one  stopped  too,  and  she  and  Edith  looked  in  one 
another's  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  have  to  sell  ?  "  said  Edith. 

"Only  this,"  returned  the  woman,  holding  out  her  wares, 
without  looking  at  them.     "  I  sold  myself  long  ago." 

"  My  lady,  don't  believe  her,"  croaked  the  old  woman  to 
Mrs.  Skewton  ;  "  don't  believe  what  she  says.  She  loves  to 
talk  like  that.  She's  my  handsome  and  undutiful  daughter. 
She  gives  me  nothing  but  reproaches,  my  lady,  for  all  I  have 
done  for  her.  Look  at  her  now,  my  lady,  how  she  turns 
upon  her  poor  old  mother  with  her  looks." 

As  Mrs.  Skewton  drew  her  purse  out  with  a  trembling 
hand,  and  eagerly  fumbled  for  some  money,  which  the  other 
old  woman  greedily  watched  for — their  heads  all  but  touch- 
ing in  their  hurry  and  decrepitude — Edith  interposed  : 

"  I  have  seen  you,"  addressing  the  old  woman,  "be- 
fore." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  with  a  courtesy.  "  Down  in  Warwick- 
shire. The  morning  among  the  trees.  When  you  wouldn't 
give  me  nothing.  But  the  gentleman,  he  gave  me  some- 
thing !  Oh,  bless  him,  bless  him  !  "  mumbled  the  old 
woman,  holding  up  her  skinny  hand,  and  grinning  fright- 
fully at  her  daughter. 

"  It's  of  no  use  attempting  to  stay  me,  Edith  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Skewton,  angrily  anticipating  an  objection  from  her.  "  You 
know  nothing  about  it.  I  won't  be  dissuaded.  I  am  sure 
this  is  an  excellent  woman,  and  a  good  mother." 

"  Yes,  my  lady,  yes,"  chattered  the  old  woman,  holding 
out  her  avaricious  hand.  "  Thankee,  my  lady.  Lord  bless 
you,  my  lady.  Sixpence  more,  my  pretty  lady,  as  a  good 
mother  yourself." 

"  And  treated  undutifully  enough,  too,  my  good  old  creat- 
ure, sometimes,  I  assure  you,"  said  Mrs.  Skewton,  whim- 
pering. "  There  !  Shake  hands  with  me.  You're  a  very 
good  old  creature — full  of  what's-his-name — and  all  that. 
You're  all  affection  and  et  cetera,  ain't  you  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  my  lady  !  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  you  are  ;  and  so's  that  gentlemanly  creat- 
ure Grangeby.  I  must  really  shake  hands  with  you  again. 
And  now  you  can  go,  you  know  ;  and  I  hope,"  addressing 
the  daughter,  "  that  you'll  show  more  gratitude,  and  natural 
what's-its-name,  and   all   the   rest    of  it — but   I    never   did 


57<5  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

remember  names — for  there  never  was  a  better  mother  than 
the  good  old  creature's  been  to  you.     Come,  Edith  !  " 

As  the  ruin  of  Cleopatra  tottered  off  whimpering,  and 
wiping  its  eyes  with  a  gingerly  remembrance  of  rouge  in 
their  neighborhood,  the  old  woman  hobbled  another  way, 
mumbling  and  counting  her  money.  Not  one  word  more, 
nor  one  other  gesture,  had  been  exchanged  between  Edith 
and  the  younger  woman,  but  neither  had  removed  her  eyes 
from  the  other  for  a  moment.  They  had  remained  con- 
fronted until  now,  when  Edith,  as  awakening  from  a  dream, 
passed  slowly  on. 

*'  You're  a  handsome  woman,"  muttered  her  shadow, 
looking  after  her  ;  "  but  good  looks  won't  save  us.  And 
you're  a  proud  woman  ;  but  pride  won't  save  us.  We  had 
need  to  know  each  other  when  we  meet  again  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

NEW  VOICES  IN  THE  WAVES. 

All  is  going  on  as  it  was  wont.  The  waves  are  hoarse 
with  repetition  of  their  mystery  ;  the  dust  lies  piled  upon 
the  shore  ;  the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover;  the  winds  and 
clouds  go  forth  upon  their  trackless  flight  ;  the  white  arms 
beckon,  in  the   moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 

With  a  tender  melancholy  pleasure,  Florence  finds  herselt 
again  on  the  old  ground  so  sadly  trodden,  yet  so  happily, 
and  thinks  of  him  in  the  quiet  place,  where  he  and  she  have 
many  and  many  a  time  conversed  together,  with  the  water 
welling  up  about  his  couch.  And  now,  as  she  sits  pensive 
there,  she  hears,  in  the  wild  murmur  of  the  sea,  his  little 
story  told  again,  his  very  words  repeated  ;  and  finds  that  all 
her  life  and  hopes,  and  griefs,  since — in  the  solitary  house, 
and  in  the  pageant  it  has  changed  to — have  a  portion  in  the 
burden  of  the  marvelous  song. 

And  gentle  Mr.  Toots,  who  wanders  at  a  distance,  looking 
wistfully  toward  the  figure  that  he  dotes  upon,  and  has  fol- 
lowed there,  but  can  not  in  his  delicacy  disturb  at  such  a  time, 
likewise  hears  the  requiem  of  little  Dombey  on  the  waters, 
rising  and  falling  in  the  lulls  of  their  eternal  madrigal 
in  praise  of  Florence.  Yes  !  and  he  faintly  understands, 
poor  Mr.  Toots,  that  they  are  saying  something  of  a  time 
when  he  was  sensible  of  being    brighter  and  not    uddl^^- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  577 

brained  ;  and  the  tears  rising  in  his  eyes  when  he  fears  thai 
he  is  dull  and  stupid  now,  and  good  for  little  but  to  be 
laughed  at,  diminish  his  satisfaction  in  their  soothing 
reminder  that  he  is  relieved  from  present  responsibility  to  the 
Chicken,  by  the  absence  of  that  game  head  of  poultry  in  the 
country,  training  (at  Toots's  cost)  for  his  great  mill  with  the 
Larkey  Boy. 

But  Mr.  Toots  takes  courage  when  they  whisper  a  kind 
thought  to  him  ;  and  by  slow  degrees  and  with  many  inde- 
cisive stoppages  on  the  way,  approaches  Florence.  Stam- 
mering and  blushing,  Mr.  Toots  affects  amazement  when  he 
comes  near  her,  and  says  (having  followed  close  on  the  car- 
riage in  which  she  traveled,  every  inch  of  the  way  from  Lon- 
don, loving  even  to  be  choked  by  the  dust  of  its  wheels), 
that  he  never  was  so  surprised  in  all  his  life. 

"And  you've  brought  Diogenes,  too,  Miss  Dombey  !  " 
says  Mr.  Toots,  thrilled  through  and  through  by  the  touch 
of  the  small  hand  so  pleasantly  and  frankly  given  him. 

No  doubt  Diogenes  is  there,  and  no  doubt  Mr.  Toots  has 
reason  to  observe  him,  for  he  comes  straightway  at  Mr. 
Toots's  legs,  and  tumbles  over  him  in  the  desperation  with 
which  he  makes  at  him,  like  a  very  dog  of  Montargis.  But 
he  is  checked  by  his  sweet  mistress. 

"  Down,  Di,  down.  Don't  you  remember  who  first  made 
us  friends,  Di  ?     For  shame  !  " 

Oh  !  Well  may  Di  lay  his  loving  cheek  against  her  hand, 
and  run  off,  and  run  back,  and  run  round  her,  barking,  and 
run  headlong  at  any  body  coming  by,  to  show  his  devotion. 
Mr.  Toots  would  run  headlong  at  any  body,  too.  A  military 
gentleman  goes  past,  and  Mr.  Toots  would  like  nothing 
better  than  to  run  at  him  full  tilt. 

"  Diogenes  is  quite  in  his  native  air,  isn't  he,  Miss  Dom- 
bey ?  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  assents,  with  a  grateful  smile. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  beg  your  pardon,  but 
if  you  would  like  to  walk  to   Biimber's,  I— I'm  going  there." 

Florence  puts  her  arm  in  that  of  Mr.  Toots  without  a 
word,  and  they  walk  away  together,  with  Diogenes  going 
on  before.  Mr.  Toots's  legs  shake  under  him  ;  and  though 
he  is  splendidly  dressed,  he  feels  misfits,  and  sees  wrinkles, 
in  the  masterpieces  of  Burgess  &  Co.,  and  wishes  he  had 
put  on  that  brightest  pair  of  boots. 

Doctor  Biimber's  house,  outside,  has  as  scholastic  and 
Studious  an  air  as  ever  ;  and  up  there  is  the  window  where 


575  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

she  used  to  look  for  the  pale  face,  and  where  the  pale  face 
brightened  when  it  saw  her,  and  the  wasted  little  hand  waved 
kisses  as  she  passed.  The  door  is  opened  by  the  same 
weak-eyed  young  man,  whose  imbecility  of  grin  at  ;nght  of 
Mr.  Toots  is  feebleness  of  character  personified.  They  are 
shown  into  the  doctor's  study,  where  blind  Homer  and 
Minerva  gave  them  audience  as  of  yore,  to  the  sober  tick- 
ing of  the  great  clock  in  the  hall  ;  and  where  the  globes 
stand  still  in  their  accustomed  places,  as  if  the  world  were 
stationary  too,  and  nothing  in  it  ever  perished  in  obedience 
to  the  universal  law,  that,  while  it  keeps  it  on  the  roll,  calls 
every  thing  to  earth. 

And  here  is  Doctor  Blimber,  with  his  learned  legs  ;  and 
here  is  Mrs.  Blimber,  with  her  sky-blue  cap  ;  and  here  is 
Cornelia,  with  her  sandy  little  row  of  curls,  and  her  bright 
spectacles,  still  working  like  a  sexton  in  the  graves  of  lan- 
guages. Here  is  the  table  upon  which  he  sat  forlorn  and 
strange,  the  ''  new  boy  "  of  the  school  ;  and  hither  comes 
the  distant  cooing  of  the  old  boys,  at  their  old  lives  in  the 
old  room  on  the  old  principle  ! 

"  Toots,"  says  Doctor  Blimber,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  see 
you.  Toots." 

Mr.  Toots  chuckles  in  reply. 

"  Also  to  see  you.  Toots,  in  such  good  company,"  says 
Doctor  Blimber. 

Mr.  Toots,  with  a  scarlet  visage,  explains  that  he  has  met 
Miss  Dombey  by  accident,  and  that  Miss  Dombey  wishing, 
like  himself,  to  see  the  old  place,   they  have  come  together. 

"You  will  like,"  says  Doctor  BUmber,  "to  step  among 
our  young  friends.  Miss  Dombey,  no  doubt.  All  fellow- 
students  of  yours.  Toots,  once.  I  think  we  have  no  new 
disciples  in  our  little  portico,  my  dear,"  says  Doctor  Blimber 
to  Cornelia,  "since  Mr.  Toots  left  us." 

*'  Except  Bitherstone,"  returns  Cornelia. 

"  Ay,  truly,"  says  the  doctor.      ■'  Bitherstone  is  new  to  Mr. 

Toots." 

New  to  Florence,  too,  almost;  for  in  the  school-room 
Bitherstone — no  longer  Master  Bitherstone  of  Mrs.  Pipchin's 
— shows  in  collars  and  a  neckcloth,  and  wears  a  watch.  But 
Bitherstone,  born  beneath  some  Bengal  star  of  ill-omen,  is 
extremely  inky;  and  his  lexicon  has  got  so  dropsical  from 
constant  reference,  that  it  won't  shut,  and  yawns  as  if  it 
really  could  not  bear  to  be  so  bothered.  So  does  Bither- 
stone  its  master,   forced  at   Doctor  Blimber's  highest  preg- 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  579 

sure;  but  in  the  yawn  of  Bithcrstone  there  is  malice  and 
snarl,  and  he  has  been  heard  to  say  that  he  wishes  he  could 
catch  "  old  Blimber  "  in  India.  He'd  precious  soon  find 
himself  carried  up  the  country  by  a  few  of  his  (Bitherstone's) 
coolies,  and  handed  over  to  the  thugs;  he  can  tell  them 
that. 

Briggs  is  still  grinding  in  the  mill  of  knowledge;  and 
Toser,  too  ;  and  Johnson,  too  ;  and  all  the  rest  ;  the  older 
pupils  being  principally  engaged  in  forgetting,  with  prodig- 
ious labor,  every  thing  they  knew  when  they  were  younger. 
All  are  as  polite  and  as  pale  as  ever;  and  among  them,  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  bony  hand  and  bristly  head,  is  still 
hard  at  it;  with  his  Herodotus  stop  on  just  at  present,  and 
his  other  barrels  on  a  shelf  behind  him. 

A  mighty  sensation  is  created,  even  among  these  grave 
young  gentlemen,  by  a  visit  from  the  emancipated  Toots  ; 
who  is  regarded  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  one  who  has  passed 
the  Rubicon,  and  is  pledged  never  to  come  back,  and  con- 
cerning the  cut  of  whose  clothes,  and  fashion  of  whose  jew- 
elry, whispers  go  about  behind  hands  ;  the  bilious  Bither- 
stone,  who  is  not  of  Mr.  Toots's  time,  affecting  to  despise 
the  latter  to  the  smaller  boys,  and  saying  he  knows  better, 
and  that  he  should  like  to  see  him  coming  that  sort  of  thing 
in  Bengal,  where  his  mother  has  got  an  emerald  belonging 
to  him  that  was  taken  out  of  the  foot-stool  of  a  rajah. 
Come  now  ! 

Bewildering  emotions  are  awakened  also  by  the  sight  of 
Florence,  with  whom  every  young  gentleman  ijiimediately 
falls  in  love,  again;  except,  as  aforesaid,  the  bilious  Bither- 
stone,  who  declines  to  do  so,  out  of  contradiction.  Black 
jealousies  of  Mr.  Toots  arise,  and  Briggs  is  of  opinion  that 
he  ain't  so  very  old  after  all.  But  this  disparaging  insinu- 
ation is  speedily  made  naught  by  Mr.  Toots  saying  aloud  to 
Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  "How  are  you,  Feeder?"  and  asking 
him  to  come  and  dine  with  him  to-day  at  the  Bedford;  in 
right  of  which  feats,  he  might  set  up  as  old  Parr,  if  he  chose, 
unquestioned. 

There  is  much  shaking  of  hands  and  much  bowing,  and  a 
great  desire  on  the  part  of  each  young  gentleman  to  take 
Toots  down  in  Miss  Dombey's  good  graces  ;  and  then  Mr. 
Toots  having  bestowed  a  chuckle  on  his  old  desk,  Florence 
and  he  withdraw  with  Mrs.  BHmber  and  Cornelia  ;  and  Dr. 
Blimber  is  heard  to  observe  behind  them  as  he  comes  out 
last  and   shuts  the  door,   "  Gentlemen,   we  will  now  resume 


580  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

our   studies."      cor  that  and  little   else   is  what  the  doctor 
hears  the  sea  saj,  or  has  heard  it  saying  all  his  life. 

Florence  then  steals  away  and  goes  up  stairs  to  the  old 
bedroom  with  Mrs.  Blimber  and  Cornelia  ;  Mr.  Toots,  who 
feels  that  he  nor  any  body  else  is  wanted  there,  stands 
talking  to  the  doctor  at  the  study-door,  or  rather  hearing  the 
doctor  talk  to  him,  and  wondering  why  he  ever  thought  the 
study  a  great  sanctuary,  and  the  doctor,  with  his  round 
turned  legs,  like  a  clerical  pianoforte,  an  awful  man.  Flor- 
ence soon  comes  down  and  takes  leave  ;  Mr.  Toots  takes 
leave  ;  and  Diogenes,  who  has  been  worrying  the  weak-eyed  ' 
young  man  pitilessly  all  the  time,  shoots  out  at  the  door,  and 
barks  a  glad  defiance  down  the  cliff  ;  while  'Melia,  and 
another  of  the  doctor's  female  domestics,  look  out  of  an 
upper  window,  laughing  "  at  that  there  Toots,"  and  saying 
of  Miss  Dombey,  "  But  really  though,  now— ain't  she  like 
her  brother,  only  prettier  ?  " 

Mr.  Toots,  who  saw  when  Florence  came  down  that  there 
were  tears  upon  her  face,  is  desperately  anxious  and  uneasy, 
and  first  fears  that  he  did  wrong  in  proposing  the  visit.  But 
he  is  soon  relieved  by  her  saying  she  is  very  glad  to  have 
been  there  again,  and  by  her  talking  quite  cheerily  about  it 
all,  as  they  walked  on  by  the  sea.  What  with  the  voices 
there,  and  her  sweet  voice,  when  they  come  near  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  house,  and  Mr.  Toots  must  leave  her,  he  is  so  enslaved 
that  he  has  not  a  scrap  of  free-will  left  ;  when  she  gives  him 
her  hand  at  parting,  he  can  not  let  it  go. 

"  Miss  Dombey,  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a 
sad  flush,  "  but  if  you  would  allow  me  to — to — " 

The  smiling  and  unconscious  look  of  Florence  brings  him 
to  a  dead  stop. 

"  If  you  v/ould  allow  me  to — if  you  would  not  consider  it 
a  liberty.  Miss  Dombey,  if  I  was  to — without  any  encourage- 
ment at  all,  if  I  was  to  hope,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 

Florence  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  who  feels  that  he  is  in 
for  it  now,  "  I  am  really  in  that  state  of  adoration  of  you 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  I  am  the  most 
deplorable  wretch.  If  I  wasn't  at  the  corner  of  the  square 
at  present,  I  should  go  down  on  my  knees,  I  beg  and  entreat 
of  you,  without  any  encouragement  at  all,  just  to  let  me 
hope  that  I  may — may  think  it  possible  that  you — " 

"  Oh,  if  you  please,  don't  !"  cried  Florence,  for  the 
moment  quite  alarmed  and  distressed.     ''  Oh,  pray  don't^ 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  5^i 

Mr.  Toots.     Stop,  if  you  please.     Don't  say  any  more.     As 
a  kindness  and  favor  to  me,  don't." 

Mr.  Toots  is  dreadfully  abashed,  and  his  mouth  opens. 
**  You  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  so 
grateful  to  you,  I  have  such  reason  to  like  you  for  being  a 
kind  friend  to  me,  and  I  do  like  you  so  much  ;"  and  here 
the  ingenuous  face  smiles  upon  him  with  the  pleasantest  look 
of  honesty  in  the  world  ;  "  that  I  am  sure  you  are  only  going 
to  say  good-by  I" 

''  Certainly,  MissDombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''I— I— That's 
exactly  what  I  mean.     It's  of  no  consequence." 
"  Good-by  !"  cries  Florence. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Dombey,"  stammers  Mr.  Toots.  "  I 
hope  you  won't  think  any  thing  about  it.  It's — it's  of  no 
consequence,  thank  you.  It's  not  of  the  least  consequence 
in  the  world." 

Poor  Mr.  Toots  goes  home  to  his  hotel  in  a  state  of  des- 
peration, locks  himself  into  his  bedroom,  flings  himself  upon 
his  bed,  and  lies  there  for  a  long  time  ;  as  if  it  were  of  the 
greatest  consequence,  nevertheless.  But  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A., 
is  coming  to  dinner,  which  happens  well  for  Mr.  Toots,  or 
there  is  no  knowing  when  he  might  get  up  again.  Mr.  Toots 
is  obliged  to  receive  him,  and  to  give  him  hospitable  entertain- 
ment. 

And  the  generous  influence  of  that  social  virtue,  hospi- 
taUty  (to  make  no  mention  of  wine  and  good  cheer),  opens 
Mr.  Toots's  heart,  and  warms  him  to  conversation.  He  does 
not  tell  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  what  passed  at  the  corner  of  the 
square  ;  but  when  Mr.  Feeder  asks  him  "  When  it  is  to  come 
off?  "  Mr.  Toot  replies,  "  that  there  are  certain  subjects  " — 
which  brings  Mr.  Feeder  down  a  peg  or  two  immediately. 
Mr.  Toots  adds  that  he  does  not  know  what  right  Blimber 
had  to  notice  his  being  in  Miss  Dombey's  company,  and  that 
if  he  thought  he  meant  impudence  by  it,  he'd  have  him  out, 
doctor  or  no  doctor  ;  but  he  supposes  it's  only  his  ignorance. 
Mr.  Feeder  says  he  has  no  doubt  of  it. 

Mr.  Feeder,  however,  as  an  intimate  friend,  is  not 
excluded  from  the  subject.  Mr.  Toots  merely  requires  that 
it  should  be  mentioned  mysteriously,  and  with  feeling. 
After  a  few  glasses  of  wine,  he  gives  Miss  Dombey's  health, 
observing,  "  Feeder,  you  have  no  idea  of  the  sentiments  with 
which  I  propose  that  toast."  Mr.  Feeder  replies,  "  Oh,  yes,  I 
have,  my  dear  Toots  ;  and  greatly  they  redound  to  your  honor, 
old  boy."     Mr.  Feeder  is  then  agitated  by  friendship,  and 


582  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

says  if  ever  Toots  wants  a  brother,  he  knows  where  to  find 
him,  either  by  post  or  parcel.  Mr.  Feeder  Ukewise  says, 
that  if  he  may  advise,  he  would  recommend  Mr.  Toots  to 
learn  the  guitar,  or  at  least  the  flute  ;  for  women  like  music, 
when  you  are  paying  your  addresses  to  'em,  and  he  has 
found  the  advantage  of  it  himself. 

This  brings  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  to  the  confession  that  he 
has  his  eye  upon  Cornelia  Blimber.  He  informs  Mr.  Toots 
that  he  don't  object  to  spectacles,  and  that  if  the  doctor  were 
to  do  the  handsome  thing  and  give  up  the  business,  why 
there  they  are — provided  for.  He  says  it's  his  opinion  that 
when  a  man  has  made  a  business,  he  is  bound  to  give  it  up  ; 
and  that  Cornelia  would  be  an  assistance  in  it  which  any 
man  might  be  proud  of.  Mr.  Toots  replies  by  launching 
wildly  out  into  Miss  Dombey's  praises,  and  by  insinuations 
that  sometimes  he  thinks  he  should  like  to  blow  his  brains 
out.  Mr.  Feeder  strongly  urges  that  it  would  be  a  rash 
attempt,  and  shows  him,  as  a  reconcilement  to  existence, 
Cornelia's  portrait,  spectacles  and  all. 

Thus  these  quiet  spirits  pass  the  evening  ;  and  when  it 
has  yielded  place  to  night,  Mr.  Toots  walks  home  with  Mr. 
Feeder,  and  parts  with  him  at  Dr.  Blimber's  door.  But  Mr. 
Feeder  only  goes  up  the  steps,  and  wh^n  Mr.  Toots  is  gone, 
comes  down  again,  to  stroll  upon  the  beach  alone,  and  think 
about  his  prospects.  Mr.  Feeder  plainly  hears  the  waves 
informing  him,  as  he  loiters  along,  that  Doctor  Blimber  will 
give  up  the  business  ;  and  he  feels  a  soft,  romantic  pleasure 
in  looking  at  the  outside  of  the  house,  and  thinking  that  the 
doctor  will  first  paint  it,  and  put  it  into  thorough  repair. 

Mr.  Toots  is  likewise  roaming  up  and  down,  outside  the 
casket  that  contains  his  jewel;  and  in  a  deplorable  condi- 
tion of  mind,  and  not  unsuspected  by  the  police,  gazes  at  a 
window  where  he  sees  a  light,  and  which  he  has  no  doubt 
is  Florence's.  But  it  is  not,  for  that  is  Mrs.  Skewton's  room; 
and  while  Florence,  sleeping  in  another  chamber,  dreams 
lovingly,  in  the  midst  of  the  old  scenes,  and  their  old  asso- 
ciations live  again,  the  figure  which  in  grim  reality  is  sub- 
stituted for  the  patient  boy's  on  the  same  theater,  once  more 
to  connect  it — but  how  differently  ! — with  decay  and  death, 
is  stretched  there,  wakeful  and  complaining.  Ugly  and 
haggard  it  lies  on  its  bed  of  unrest ;  and  by  it,  in  the  terror 
of  her  unimpassioned  loveliness — for  it  /las  terror  in  the 
sufferer's  failing  eyes — sits  Edith.  What  do  the  waves  say, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  night,   to  them  ? 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  583 

"  Edith,  what  is  that  stone  arm  raised  to  strike  me. 
Don't  you  see  it  ?  " 

''  There  is  nothing,  mother,  but  your  fancy." 

"  But  my  fancy  !  Every  thing  is  my  fancy.  Look  !  Is 
it  possible  that  you  don't  see  it  !  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  there  is  nothing.  Should  I  sit  unmoved 
if  there  were  any  such  thing  there  ?  " 

"Unmoved?"  looking  wildly  at  her — ''it's  gone  now — 
and  why  are  you  so  unmoved  ?  That  is  not  my  fancy,  Edith. 
It  turns  me  cold  to  see  you  sitting  at  my  side." 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother." 

"  Sorry  !     You  seem  always  sorry-.     But  it  is  not  for  me  !" 

With  that  she  cries  ;  and  tossing  her  restless  head  from 
side  to  side  upon  her  pillow,  runs  on  about  neglect,  and  the 
mother  she  has  been,  and  the  mother  the  good  old  creature 
was  whom  they  met,  and  the  cold  return  the  daughters  of 
such  mothers  make.  In  the  midst  of  her  incoherence,  she 
stops,  looks  at  her  daughter,  cries  out  that  her  wits  are 
going,  and  hides  her  face  upon  the  bed. 

Edith,  in  compassion,  bends  over  her  and  speaks  to  her. 
The  sick  old  woman  clutches  her  round  the  neck,  and  says, 
with  a  look  of  horror: 

"Edith!  we  are  going  home  soon;  going  back.  You 
mean  that  I  shall  go  home  again  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother,  yes." 

"  And  what  he  said — what's  his  name,  I  never  could 
remember  names — major — that  dreadful  word,  when  he  came 
away — it's  not  true  ?  Edith  !  "  with  a  shriek  and  a  stare, 
"  it's  not  that  that  is  the  matter  with  me." 

Night  after  night  the  light  burns  in  the  window,  and  the 
figure  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  Edith  sits  beside  it,  and  the 
restless  waves  are  calling  to  them  both  the  whole  night 
long.  Night  after  night  the  waves  are  hoarse  with  repeti- 
tion of  their  mystery  ;  the  dust  lies  piled  upon  the  shore  ; 
the  sea-birds  soar  and  hover  ;  the  winds  and  clouds  are  on 
their  trackless  flight  ;  the  white  arms  beckon,  in  the  moon- 
light, to  the  invisible  country  far  away. 

And  still  the  sick  old  woman  looks  into  the  corner,  where 
the  stone  arm — part  of  a  figure  of  some  tomb,  she  says — is 
raised  to  strike  her.  At  last  it  falls  ;  and  then  a  dumb  old 
woman  lies  upon  the  bed,  and  she  is  crooked  up,  and  half  of 
her  is  dead. 

Such  is  the  figure,  painted  and  patched  for  the  sun  to 
rnock,  that  is  drawn  slowly  throug'h   the  crowd  from  day  to 


584  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

day  ;  looking,  as  it  goes,  for  the  good  old  creature  who 
was  such  a  mother,  and  making  mouths  as  it  peers  among 
the  crowd  in  vain.  Such  is  the  figure  that  is  often  wheeled 
down  to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  and  stationed  there  ;  but  on 
which  no  wind  can  blow  freshness,  and  of  which  the  mur- 
mur of  the  ocean  has  no  soothing  word.  She  lies  and 
listens  to  it  by  the  hour  ;  but  its  speech  is  dark  and  gloomy 
to  her,  and  a  dread  is  on  her  face,  and  when  her  eyes  wan- 
der over  the  expanse,  they  see  but  a  broad  stretch  of  deso- 
lation between  earth  and  heaven. 

Florence  she  seldom  sees,  and  when  she  does,  is  angry 
and  mows  at.  Edith  is  beside  her  always,  and  keeps  Flor- 
ence away  ;  and  Florence,  in  her  bed  at  night,  trembles  at 
the  thought  of  death  in  such  a  shape,  and  often  wakes  and 
listens,  thinking  it  has  come.  No  one  attends  on  her  but 
Edith.  It  is  better  that  few  eyes  should  see  her;  and  her 
daughter  watches  alone  by  the  bedside. 

A  shadov/  even  on  that  shadowed  face,  a  sharpening  even 
of  the  sharpened  features,  and  a  thickening  of  the  veil  before 
the  eyes  into  a  pall  that  shuts  out  the  dim  world,  is  come. 
Her  wandering  hands  upon  the  coverlet  join  feebly  palm 
to  palm,  and  move  toward  her  daughter  ;  and  a  voice  not 
like  hers,  not  like  any  voice  that  speaks  our  mortal  language 
— says,-"  for  I  nursed  you  !  " 

Edith,  without  a  tear,  kneels  down  to  bring  her  voice 
closer  to  the  sinking  head,  and  answer  : 

*'  Mother,  can  you  hear  me  ?" 

Staring  wide,  she  tries  to  nod  in  answer. 

*'  Can  you  recollect  the  night  before  I  married  ?  " 

The  head  is  motionless,  but  it  expresses  somehow  that 
she  does. 

"  I  told  you  then  that  I  forgave  your  part  in  it,  and  prayed 
God  to  forgive  my  own.  I  told  you  that  the  past  was  at  an 
end  between  us.     I  say  so  now,  again.     Kiss  me,  mother." 

Edith  touches  the  white  lips,  and  for  a  moment  all  is  still. 
A  moment  afterward,  her  mother,  v/ith  her  girlish  laugh,  and 
the  skeleton  of  the  Cleopatra  manner,  rises  in  her  bed. 

Draw  the  rose-colored  curtains.  There  is  something  else 
upon  its  flight  besides  the  wind  and  clouds.  Draw  the  rose- 
colored  curtains  close  ! 

IntelHgence  of  the  event  is  sent  to  Mr.  Dombey  in  town, 
who  waits  upon  Cousin  Feenix  (not  yet  able  to  make  up  his 
mind  for  Baden-Baden)^  who  has  just  received  it  too.     A 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  585 

good-natured  creature  like  Cousin  Feenix  is  the  very  man 
for  a  marriage  or  a  funeral,  and  his  position  in  the  family 
renders  it  right  that  he  should  be  consulted. 

/' Dombey,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ''upon  my  soul,  I  am 
very  much  shocked  to  see  you  on  such  a  melancholy  occa- 
sion.    My  poor  aunt  !     She  was  a  devilish  lively  woman." 

Mr.  Dombey  replies,  ''  Very  much  so." 

"  And  made  up,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  really  young,  you 
Know,  considering.  I  am  sure,  on  the  day  of  your  marriage, 
I  thought  she  was  good  for  another  twenty  years.  In  point 
of  fact,  I  said  so  to  a  man  at  Brooks's — little  Billy  Joper — 
you  know  him,  no  doubt — a  man  with  a  glass  in  his  eye  ?  " 

Mr.  Dombey  bows  a  negative.  "  In  reference  to  the 
obsequies,"  he  hints,  "  whether  there  is  any  suggestion — " 

"  Well,  upon  my  life,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  stroking  his 
chin,  which  he  has  just  enough  of  hand  below  his  wrist- 
bands to  do  ;  "I  really  don't  know,  there's  a  mausoleum 
down  at  my  place  in  the  park,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  in  bad 
repair,  and,  in  point  of  fact,  in  a  devil  of  a  state.  But  for 
being  a  little  out  at  elbows,  I  should  have  had  it  put  to 
rights,  but  I  believe  the  people  come  and  make  picnic 
parties  there  inside  the  iron  railings." 

Mr.  Dombey  is  clear  that  this  won't  do. 

"  There's  an  uncommon  good  church  in  the  village,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix,  thoughtfully  ;  "  pure  specimen  of  the  Anglo- 
Norman  style,  and  admirably  well  sketched  too  by  Lady 
Jane  Finchbury — woman  with  tight  stays — but  they've 
spoiled  it  with  whitewash,  I  understand,  and  it's  a  long 
journey." 

"  Perhaps  Brighton  itself,"  Mr.  Dombey  suggests. 

"Upon  my  honor,  Dombey,  I  don't  think  we  co  -'"'"i  do 
better,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  It's  on  the  spot,  you  see, 
and  a  very  cheerful  place." 

"  And  when,"  hints  Mr.  Dombey,  *'  would  it  be  con- 
venient ?  " 

"  I  shall  make  a  point,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "  of  pledging 
myself  for  any  day  you  think  best.  I  shall  have  great 
pleasure  (melancholy  pleasure,  of  course)  in  following  my 
poor  aunt  to  the  confines  of  the — in  point  of  fact,  to  the 
grave,"  says  CoiAsin  Feenix,  failing  in  the  other  turn  of 
speech. 

"  Would  Monday  do  for  leaving  town  ? "  says  Mr. 
Dombey. 

"  Monday  would  suit  me  to  perfection,"  replies  Cousin 


586  DOxMBEY   AND   SON. 

Feenix.  Therefore  Mr.  Dombey  arranges  to  take  Cousin 
Feenix  down  on  that  day,  and  presently  takes  his  leave, 
attended  to  the  stairs  by  Cousin  Feenix,  who  says,  at  parting, 
"  Fm  really  excessively  sorry,  Dombey,  that  you  should  have 
so  much  trouble  about  it ;  "  to  which  Mr.  Dombey  answers, 
''  Not  at  all." 

At  the  appointed  time.  Cousin  Feenix  and  Mr.  Dombey 
meet,  and  go  down  to  Brighton,  and  representing,  in  their 
two  selves,  all  the  other  mourners  for  the  deceased  lady's 
loss,  attend  her  remains  to  their  place  of  rest.  Cousin 
Feenix,  sitting  in  the  mourning-coach,  recognizes  innumer- 
able acquaintances  on  the  road,  but  takes  no  other  notice  of 
them,  in  decorum,  than  checking  them  off  aloud,  as  they  go 
by,  for  Mr.  Dombey's  information,  as  "  Tom  Johnson.  Man 
with  cork  leg  from  White's.  What,  are  jw/here.  Tommy? 
Foley  on  a  blood  mare.  The  Smalder  girls  " — and  so  forth. 
At  the  ceremony  Cousin  Feenix  is  depressed,  observing  that 
these  are  the  occasions  to  make  a  man  think,  in  point  of 
fact,  that  he  is  getting  shaky  ;  and  his  eyes  are  really  moist- 
ened, when  it  is  over.  But  he  soon  recovers  ;  and  so  do 
the  rest  of  Mrs.  Skewton's  relatives  and  friends,  of  whom 
the  major  continually  tells  the  club  that  she  never  did  wrap 
up  enough  ;  while  the  young  lady  with  the  back,  who  has  so 
much  trouble  with  her  eyelids,  says,  with  a  little  scream, 
that  she  must  have  been  enormously  old,  and  that  she  died 
of  all  kinds  of  horrors,  and  you  mustn't  mention  it. 

So  Edith's  mother  lies  unmentioned  of  her  dear  friends, 
who  are  deaf  to  the  waves  that  are  hoarse  with  repetition  of 
their  mystery,  and  blind  to  the  dust  that  is  piled  upon  the 
shore,  and  to  the  white  arms  that  are  beckoning,  in  the 
moonlight,  to  the  invisible  country  far  away.  But  all  goes 
on,  as  it  was  wont,  upon  the  margin  of  the  unknown  sea  ; 
and  Edith  standing  there  alone,  and  listening  to  its  waves, 
has  dank  weed  cast  up  at  her  feet,  to  strew  her  path  in  life 
withal. 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

CONFIDENTIAL    AND    ACCIDENTAL. 

Attired  no  more  in  Captain  Cuttle's  sable  slops  and 
sou'-westdr  hat,  but  dressed  in  a  substantial  suit  of  brown 
livery,  which,  while  it  affected  to  be  a  very  sober  and  demure 
livery  indeed,  was   really  as  self-satisfied   and   confident  an 


DOxMBEY    AND   SON.  5S7 

one  as  tailor  need  desire  to  make,  Rob  the  Grinder,  thus 
transformed  as  to  his  outer  man,  and  all  regardless  within  of 
the  captain  and  the  midshipman,  except  when  he  devoted  a 
few  minutes  of  his  leisure  time  to  crowing  over  those 
inseparable  worthies,  and  recalling,  with  much  applauding 
music  from  that  brazen  instrument,  his  conscience,  the 
triumphant  manner  in  which  he  had  disembarrassed  himself 
of  their  company,  now  served  his  patron,  INIr.  Carker. 
Inmate  of  Mr.  Carker's  house,  and  serving  about  his  person, 
Rob  kept  his  round  eyes  on  the  white  teeth  with  fear  and 
trembling,  and  felt  that  he  had  need  to  open  them  wider 
than  ever. 

He  could  not  have  quaked  more,  through  his  whole  being, 
before  the  teeth,  though  he  had  come  into  the  service  of 
some  powerful  enchanter,  and  they  had  been  his  strongest 
spell.  The  boy  had  a  sense  of  power  and  authority  in  this 
patron  of  his  that  engrossed  his  whole  attention,  and 
exacted  his  most  implicit  submission  and  obedience.  He 
hardly  considered  himself  safe  in  thinking  about  him 
when  he  was  absent,  lest  he  should  feel  himself  imme- 
diately taken  by  the  throat  again,  as  on  the  morning 
when  he  first  became  bound  to  him,  and  should  see  every: 
one  of  the  teeth  finding  him  out,  and  taxing  him  with 
every  fancy  of  his  mind.  Face  to  face  with  him,  Rob  had 
no  more  doubt  that  Mr.  Carker  read  his  secret  thoughts,  or 
that  he  could  read  them  by  the  least  exertion  of  his  will  if 
he  were  so  inclined,  than  he  had  that  Mr.  Carker  saw  him 
when  he  looked  at  him.  The  ascendency  was  so  complete, 
g,nd  held  him  in  such  enthrallment,  that,  hardly  daring  to 
think  at  all,  but  with  his  mind  filled  with  a  constantly  dilat- 
ing impression  of  his  patron's  irresistible  command  over  him, 
and  power  of  doing  any  thing  with  him,  he  would  stand 
watching  his  pleasure,  and  trying  to  anticipate  his  orders,  in 
a  state  of  mental  suspension,  as  to  all  other  things. 

Rob  had  not  informed  himself  perhaps — in  his  then  state 
of  mind  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  no  common  temerity 
to  inquire — whether  he  yielded  so  completely  to  this  influence 
in  any  part,  because  he  had  floating  suspicions  of  his  patron's 
being  a  master  of  certain  treacherous  arts  in  which  he  had 
himself  been  a  poor  scholar  at  the  grinders'  school.  But 
certainly  Rob  admired  him,  as  well  as  feared  him.  Mr. 
Carker,  perhaps,  was  better  acquainted  with  the  sources  of 
his  power,  which  lost  nothing  by  his  management  of  it. 

On  the  very  night  when  he  left  the  captain's  service,  Rob, 


588  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

after  disposing  of  his  pigeons,  and  even  making  a  bad  bar- 
gain in  his  hurry,  had  gone  straight  down  to  Mr.  Carker's 
house,  and  hotly  presented  himself  before  his  new  master 
with  a  glowing  face  that  seemed  to  expect  commendation. 

"  What,  scape-grace  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker,  glancing  at  his 
bundle.     "  Have  ybu  left  your   situation  and  come  to  me  ?  " 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  sir,"  faltered  Rob,  "you  said,  you 
know,  when  I  come  here  last — " 

"  /  said,"  returned  Mr.  Carker,  "  what  did  I  say  ?" 

'^  If  you  please,  sir,  you  didn't  say  nothing  at  all,  siV," 
returned  Rob,  warned  by  the  manner  of  this  inquiry,  and 
very  much  disconcerted. 

His  patron  looked  at  him  with  a  wide  display  of  gums,  and 
shaking  his  forefinger,  observed  : 

"  You'll  come  to  an  evil  end,  my  vagabond  friend,  I  fore- 
see.    There's  ruin  in  store  for  you." 

"  Oh  it  you  please,  don't,  sir  !  "  cried  Rob,  with  his  legs 
trembling  under  him.  "  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  only  want  to  work 
for  you,  sir,  and  to  wait  upon  you,  sir,  and  to  do  faithful 
whatever  I'm  bid,  sir." 

"  You  had  better  do  faithfully  whatever  you  are  bid," 
returned  his  patron,  "  if  you  have  any  thing  to  do  with  me." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,  sir,"  pleaded  the  submissive  Rob  ; 
"  I'm  sure  of  that,  sir.  If  you'll  only  be  so  good  as  try  me, 
sir  !  And  if  you  ever  find  me  out,  sir,  doing  any  thing 
against  your  wishes,  I  give  you  leave  to  kill  me." 

"  You  dog  ! "  said  Mr.  Carker,  leaning  back  in  his  chair, 
and  smiling  at  him  serenely.  "  That's  nothing  to  what  I'd 
do  to  you,  if  you  tried  to  deceive  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  abject  grinder,  "  I'm  sure  you 
would  be  down  upon  me  dreadful,  sir.  I  wouldn't  attempt 
for  to  go  and  do  it,  sir,  not  if  I  was  bribed  with  golden 
guineas," 

Thoroughly  checked  in  his  expectations  of  commendation 
the  crest-fallen  grinder  stood  looking  at  his  patron,  and 
vainly  endeavoring  not  to  look  at  him,  with  the  uneasi- 
ness which  a  cur  will  often  manifest  in  a  similar  situation. 

"  So  you  have  left  your  old  service,  and  come  here  to  ask 
me  to  take  you  into  mine,  eh  ?  "   said  Mr.  Carker. 

*'  Yes,  if  you  please,  sir,"  returned  Rob,  who,  in  doing  so, 
had  acted  on  his  patron's  own  instructions,  but  dared 
not  justify  himself  by  the  least  insinuation  to  that  effect. 

"  Well  !  "  said  Mr.  Carker.     "  You  know  me,  boy  ?  " 

**  Please,  sir,  yes,  sir,"    returned  Rob,   fumbling  with    his 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  5S9 

hat,  and  still  fixed  by  Mr.  Carker's  eye,  and  fruitlessly 
endeavoring  to  unfix  himself. 

Mr.  Carker  nodded.     "  Take  care,  then  ! " 

Rob  expressed  in  a  number  of  short  bows  his  lively  under- 
standing of  this  caution,  and  was  bowing  himself  back  to 
the  door,  greatly  relieved  by  the  prospect  of  getting  on  the 
outside  of  it,  when  his  patron  stopped  him.        • 

*' Hallo  !  "  he  cried,  calling  him  roughly  back.  "You 
have  been — shut  that  door." 

Rob  obeyed  as  if  his  life  had  depended  on  his  alacrity. 

"  You  have  been  used  to  eavesdropping.  Do  you  know 
what  that  means  ?  " 

"  Listening,  sir  ?  "  Rob  hazarded,  after  some  embar- 
rassed reflection. 

His  patron  nodded.     "  And  watching,  and  so  forth." 

*'  I  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing  here,  sir,"  answered  Rob  ; 
"  upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  wouldn't,  sir,  I  wish  I  may 
die  if  I  would,  sir,  for  any  thing  that  could  be  promised  to 
me.  I  should  consider  it  as  much  as  all  the  world  was 
worth,  to  offer  to  do  such  a  thing,  unless  I  was  ordered, 
sir." 

"  You  had  better  not.  You  have  been  used,  too,  to  bab- 
bling and  tattling,"  said  his  patron  with  perfect  coolness. 
"  Beware  of  that  here,  or  you're  a  lost  rascal  ;  "  and  he 
smiled  again,  and  again  cautioned  him   with   his  forefinger. 

The  grinder's  breath  came  short  and  thick  with  conster- 
nation. He  tried  to  protest  the  purity  of  his  intentions,  but 
could  only  stare  at  the  smiling  gentleman  in  a  stupor  of  sub- 
mission, with  which  the  smiling  gentleman  seemed  well 
enough  satisfied,  for  he  ordered  him  down  stairs,  after 
observing  him  for  some  moments  in  silence,  and  gave  him 
to  understand  that  he  was  retained  in  his  employment. 

This  was  the  manner  of  Rob  the  Grinder's  engagement 
by  Mr.  Carker,  and  his  awe-stricken  devotion  to  that  gentle- 
man had  strengthened  and  increased,  if  possible,  with  every 
minute  of  his  service. 

It  was  a  service  of  some  months'  duration  when  early  one 
'morning  Rob  opened  the  garden  gate  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who 
was  come  to  breakfast  with  his  master,  by  appointment. 
At  the  same  moment  his  master  himself  came,  hurrying 
forth  to  receive  the  distinguished  guest,  and  gave  him  wel- 
come with  all  his  teeth. 

"  I  never  thought,"  said  Carker,  when  ne  had  assisted 
him  to  alight  from   his  horse,  ''  to  see   you  here,  I'm  sure. 


590  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

This  is  an  extraordinary  day  in  my  calendar.  No  occasion 
is  very  special  to  a  man  like  you,  who  may  do  any  thing  ;  but 
to  a  man  like  me  the  case  is  widely  different." 

"  You  have  a  tasteful  place  here,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  condescending  to  stop  upon  the  lawn,  to  look  about 
him. 

"You  can  Afford  to  say  so,"  returned  Carker.  "Thank 
you." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  lofty  patronage,  "  any 
one  might  say  so.  As  far  as  it  goes  it  is  a  very  commo- 
dious and  well  arranged  place — quite  elegant." 

"  As  far  as  it  goes,  truly,"  returned  Carker,  with  an  air  of 
disparagement,  "  It  wants  that  qualification.  Well,  we 
have  said  enough  about  it  ;  and  though  you  can  afford  to 
praise  it,  I  thank   you  none  the  less.     Will   you  walk  in  ?" 

Mr.  Dombey  entering  the  house,  noticed,  as  he  had  reason 
to  do,  the  complete  arrangement  of  the  rooms,  and  the 
numerous  contrivances  for  comfort  and  effect  that  abounded 
there.  Mr.  Carker,  in  his  ostentation  of  humility,  received 
this  notice  with  a  deferential  smile,  and  said  he  understood 
its  delicate  meaning,  and  appreciated  it,  but  in  truth 
the  cottage  was  good  enough  for  one  in  his  position — 
better  perhaps,  than  such  a  man  should  occupy,  poor  as  it 
was. 

"  But  perhaps  to  you,  who  are  so  far  removed,  it  really 
does  look  better  than  it  is,"  he  said,  with  his  false  mouth 
distended  to  its  fullest  stretch.  "  Just  as  monarchs  imagine 
attractions  in  the  lives  of  beggars." 

He  directed  a  sharp  glance  and  a  sharp  smile  at  Mr. 
Dombey  as  he  spoke,  and  a  sharper  glance,  and  sharper 
smile  yet,  when  Mr.  Dombey,  drawing  himself  up  before  the 
fire,  in  the  attitude  so  often  copied  by  his  second  in  com- 
mand, looked  round  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  Cursorily  as 
his  cold  eye  wandered  over  them,  Carker's  keen  glance 
accompanied  his,  and  kept  pace  with  his,  marking  exactly 
where  it  went,  and  what  it  saw.  As  it  rested  on  the  picture 
in  particular,  Carker  hardly  seemed  to  breathe,  his  sidelong 
scrutiny  was  so  cat-like  and  vigilant,  but  the  eye  of  his  great 
chief  passed  from  that,  as  from  others,  and  appeared  no 
more  impressed  by  it  than  by  the  rest, 

Carker  looked  at  it — it  was  the  picture  that  resembled 
Edith — as  if  it  were  a  living  thing  ;  and  with  a  wicked, 
silent  laugh  upon  his  face,  that  seemed  in  part  addressed  to 
it,   though   it  was  all  derisive  of  the  great  man  standing  so 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  591 

unconsciously  beside  him.  Breakfast  was  soon  set  upon  the 
table  ;  and,  inviting  Mr.  Dombey  to  a  chair,  which  had  its 
back  toward  this  picture,  he  took  his  own  seat  opposite  to  it 
as  usual. 

Mr.  Dombey  was  even  graver  than  it  was  his  custom  to  be, 
and  quite  silent.  The  parrot  swinging  in  the  gilded  hoop 
within  her  gaudy  cage,  attempted  in  vain  to  attract  notice, 
for  Carker  was  too  observant  of  his  visitor  to  heed  her  ;  and 
the  visitor,  abstracted  in  meditation,  looked  fixedly,  not  to 
say  sullenly,  over  his  stiff  neckcloth.  As  to  Rob,  who  was 
in  attendance,  all  his  faculties  and  energies  were  so  locked 
up  in  observation  of  his  master,  that  he  scarcely  ventured 
to  give  shelter  to  the  thought  that  the  visitor  was  the  great 
gentleman  before  whom  he  had  been  carried  as  a  certificate 
of  the  family  health,  in  his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he  had 
been  indebted  for  his  leather  smalls. 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Carker,  suddenly,  "  to  ask  how  Mrs. 
Dombey  is  ?  " 

He  leaned  forward  obsequiously,  as  he  made  the  inquiry, 
with  his  chin  resting  on  his  hand  ;  and  at  the  same  time  his 
eyes  went  up  to  the  picture,  as  if  he  said  to  it,  "  Now,  see, 
how  I  will  lead  him  on  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  reddened  as  he  answered  : 

**  Mrs.  Dombey  is  quite  well.  You  remind  me,  Carker,  of 
some  conversation  I  wish  to  have  with  you." 

"  Robin,  you  can  leave  us,"  said  the  master,  at  whose 
mild  tones  Robin  started  and  disappeared,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  his  patron  to  the  last.  "  You  don't  remember 
that  boy,  of  course  ?  "  he  added,  when  the  immeshed  grinder 
was  gone. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  magnificent  indifference. 

"  Not  likely  that  a  man  like  you  would.  Hardly 
possible,"  murmured  Carker.  "  But  he  is  one  of  that 
family  from  whom  you  took  a  nurse.  Perhaps  you  may 
remember  having  generously  charged  yourself  with  his 
education?" 

*'  Is  it  that  boy  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  frown.  "  He 
does  little  credit  to  his  education,  I  believe." 

"  Why,  he  is  a  young  rip,  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Carker, 
with  a  shrug.  *^  He  bears  that  character.  But  the  truth  is,  I 
took  him  into  my  service  because,  being  able  to  get  no  other 
employment,  he  conceived  (had  been  taught  at  home,  I  dare 
say)  that  he  had  some  sort  of  claim  upon  you,  and  was  con- 
stantly  trying   to  dog   your  heels  with  his  petition.     And 


592  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

although  my  defined  and  recognized  connection  with  your 
affairs  is  merely  of  a  business  character,  still  I  have  that 
spontaneous  interest  in  every  thing  belonging  to  you, 
that — " 

He  stopped  again  as  if  to  discover  whether  he  had  led 
Mr.  Dombey  far  enough  yet.  And  again,  with  his  chin  rest- 
ing on  his  hand,  he  leered  at  the  picture. 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ''  I  am  sensible  that  you  do 
not  limit  your — " 

''  Service,"  suggested  his  smiling  entertainer. 

"No;  I  prefer  to  say  your  regard,"  observed  Mr. 
Dombey  ;  very  sensible,  as  he  said  so,  that  he  was  paying 
him  a  handsome  and  flattering  compliment  ;  "  to  our  mere 
business  relations.  Your  consideration  for  my  feelings, 
hopes,  and  disappointments,  in  the  little  instance  you  have 
just  now  mentioned,  is  an  example  in  point.  I  am  obliged 
to  you,  Carker." 

Mr.  Carker  bent  his  head  slowly,  and  very  softly  rubbed 
his  hands,  as  if  he  were  afraid  by  any  action  to  disturb  the 
current  of  Mr.  Dombey's  confidence. 

"  Your  allusion  to  it  is  opportune,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  after 
a  little  hesitation  ;  "  for  it  prepares  the  way  to  what  I  was 
beginning  to  say  to  you,  and  reminds  me  that  that  involves 
no  absolutely  new  relations  between  us,  although  it  may 
involve  more  personal  confidence  on  my  part  than  I  have 
hitherto — " 

"  Distinguished  me  with,"  suggested  Carker,  bending  his 
head  again  ;  ''  I  will  not  say  to  you  how  honored  I  am  ;  for 
a  man  like  you  well  knows  how  much  honor  he  has  in  his 
power  to  bestow  at  pleasure." 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  passing 
this  compliment  with  august  self-denial,  "  are  not  quite 
agreed  upon  some  points.  We  do  not  appear  to  understand 
each  other  yet.     Mrs.  Dombey  has  something  to  learn."  • 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  is  distinguished  by  many  rare  attractions  ; 
and  has  been  accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  receive  much 
adulation,"  said  the  smooth,  sleek  watcher  of  his  slightest 
look  and  tone.  "  But  where  there  is  affection,  duty,  and 
respect,  any  little  mistakes  engendered  by  such  causes  are 
soon  set  right." 

Mr.  Dombey's  thoughts  instinctively  flew  back  to  the  face 
that  had  looked  at  him  in  his  wife's  dressing-room,  when  an 
imperious  hand  was  stretched  toward  the  door  ;  and 
remembering  the  affection,  duty,  and  respect  expressed  in  it, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  593 

he  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  own  face  quite  as  plainly  as  the 
watching  eyes  upon  him  saw  it  there. 

"Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "had 
some  discussion,  before  Mrs.  Skewton's  death,  upon  the 
causes  of  my  dissatisfaction  ;  of  which  you  will  have  formed 
a  general  understanding  from  having  been  a  witness  of  what 
passed  between  Mrs.  Dombey  and  myself  on  the  evening 
when  you  were  at  our — at  my  house." 

"When  I  so  much  regretted  being  present,"  said  the 
smiling  Carker.  "  Proud  as  a  man  in  my  position  necessar- 
ily must  be  of  your  familiar  notice — though  I  give  you  no 
credit  for  it  ;  you  may  do  any  thing  you  please  without 
losing  caste — and  honored  as  I  was  by  an  early  presentation 
to  Mrs.  Dombey,  before  she  was  made  eminent  by  bearing 
your  name,  I  almost  regretted  that  night,  I  assure  you,  that 
I  had  been  the  object  of  such  special  good  fortune." 

That  any  man  could,  under  any  possible  circumstances, 
regret  the  being  distinguished  by  his  condescension  and 
patronage,  was  a  moral  phenomenon  which  Mr.  Dombey 
could  not  comprehend.  He  therefore  responded,  with  a 
considerable  accession  of  dignitv.  **  Indeed  !  And  why, 
Carker?" 

"  I  fear,"  returned  the  confidential  agent,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dombey,  never  very  much  disposed  to  regard  me  with 
favorable  interest — one  in  my  position  could  not  expect 
that,  from  a  lady  naturally  proud,  and  whose  pride  becomes 
her  so  well — may  not  easily  forgive  my  innocent  part  in 
that  conversation.  Your  displeasure  is  no  little  matter,  you 
must  remember  ;  and  to  be  visited  with  it  before  a  third 
party — " 

"Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  arrogantly;  "I  presume 
that  /  am  the  first  consideration  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Can  there  be  a  doubt  about  it  ?  "  replied  the 
other,  with  the  impatience  of  a  man  admitting  a  notorious 
and  incontrovertible  fact. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  becomes  a  secondary  consideration,  when 
we  are  both  in  question,  I  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Is 
that  so  ?  " 

"  Is  it  so  ? "  returned  Carker.  "  Do  you  know  better 
than  any  one,  that  you  have  no  need  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Then  I  hope,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "that  your 
regret  in  the  acquisition  of  Mrs.  Dombey' s  displeasure  may 
be  almost  counterbalanced  by  }Our  satisfaction  in  retaining 
my  confidence  and  good  opinion." 


594  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"I  have  the  misfortune,  I  find,"  returned  Carker,  *' to 
have  incurred  that  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has 
expressed  it  to  you  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Dombey  has  expressed  various  opinions,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  with  majestic  coldness  and  indifference,  "  in 
which  T  do  not  participate,  and  which  I  am  not  inclined  to 
discuss  or  to  recall.  I  made  Mrs.  Dombey  acquainted, 
some  time  since,  as  I  have  already  told  you,  with  certain 
points  of  domestic  difference  and  submission  on  which  I 
felt  it  necessary  to  insist.  I  failed  to  convince  Mrs.  Dom- 
bey of  the  expediency  of  her  immediately  altering  her  con- 
duct in  these  respects,  with  a  view  to  her  own  peace  and 
welfare,  and  my  dignity  ;  and  I  informed  Mrs.  Dombey 
that  if  I  should  find  it  necessary  to  object  or  remonstrate 
again,  I  should  express  my  opinion  to  her  through  yourself, 
my  confidential  agent." 

Blended  with  the  look  that  Carker  bent  upon  him,  was  a 
devilish  look  at  the  picture  over  his  head  that  struck  upon 
it  like  a  flash  of  lightning. 

"  Now,  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  ''  I  do  not  hesitate  to 
say  to  you  that  I  will  carry  my  point.  I  am  not  to  be  trifled 
with.  Mrs.  Dombey  must  understand  that  my  will  is  law, 
and  that  I  can  not  allow  of  one  exception  to  the  whole  rule 
of  my  life.  _  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  undertake  this 
charge,  which,  coming  from  me,-  is  not  unacceptable  to  you, 
I  hope,  whatever  regret  you  may  politely  profess — for  which 
I  am  obliged  to  you  on  behalf  of  Mrs.  Dombey  ;  and  you 
will  have  the  goodness,  I  am  persuaded,  to  discharge  it  as 
exactly  as  any  other  commission." 

"  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  that  you  have  only  to 
command  me." 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  majestic  indication 
of  assent,  "  that  I  have  only  to  command  you.  It  is  neces- 
sary that  I  should  proceed  in  this.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  a  lady 
undoubtedly  highly  qualified,  in  many  respects,  to — " 

"  To  do  credit  even  to  your  choice,"  suggested  Carker, 
with  a  fawning  show  of  teeth. 

""  Yes  ;  if  you  please  to  adopt  that  form  of  words,"  said 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  tone  of  state  ;  ''  and  at  present  I  do  not 
conceive  that  Mrs.  Dombey  does  that  credit  to  it  to  which 
it  is  entitled.  There  is  a  principle  of  opposition  in  Mrs. 
Dombey  that  must  be  eradicated  ;  that  must  be  overcome  ; 
Mrs.  Dombey  does  not  appear  to  understand,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  forcibly,  "  that  the  idea  of  opposition  to  me  is 
monstrous  and  absurd," 


DOIMBEY    AND   SON.  595 

"We,  in  the  city,  know  you  better,"  replied  Carker,  with  a 
smile  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  know  me  better,"  said  Mr.  Dombey.  ^'  I  hope  so. 
Though,  indeed,  I  am  bound  to  do  Mrs.  Dombey  the  justice 
of  saying,  however  inconsistent  it  may  seem  with  her  subse- 
quent conduct  (which  remains  unchanged),  that  on  my 
expressing  my  disapprobation  and  determination  to  her, 
with  some  severity,  on  the  occasion  to  which  I  have  referred, 
my  admonition  appeared  to  produce  a  very  powerful  effect." 
Mr.  Dombey  delivered  himself  of  those  word'j  with  most  por- 
tentous stateliness.  "  I  wish  you  to  have  the  goodness,  then, 
to  inform  Mrs.  Dombey,  Carker,  for  me,  that  I  must  recall 
our  former  conversation  to  her  remembrance,  in  some  sur- 
prise that  it  has  not  yet  had  its  effect.  That  I  must  insist 
upon  her  regulating  her  conduct  by  the  injunctions  laid  upon 
her  in  that  conversation.  That  I  am  not  satisfied  with  her 
conduct.  That  I  am  greatly  dissatisfied  with  it.  And  that 
I  shall  be  under  the  very  disagreeable  necessity  of  making 
you  the  bearer  of  yet  more  unwelcome  and  explicit  communi- 
cations, if  she  has  not  the  good  sense  and  the  proper  feeling 
to  adapt  herself  to  my  wishes,  as  the  first  Mrs.  Dombey 
did,  and,  I  believe  I  may  add,  as  any  other  in  her  place 
would." 

*'  The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  lived  very  happily,"  said 
Carker. 

"  The  first  Mrs.  Dombey  had  great  good  sense,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  a  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dead,  *'  and  very 
correct  feeling." 

"  Is  Miss  Dombey  like  her  mother,  do  you  think  ?  "  said 
Carker. 

Swiftly  and  darkly,  Mr.  Dombey's  face  changed.  His 
confidential  agent  eyed  it  keenly. 

'*  I  have  approached  a  painfull  subject,"  he  said,  in  a  soft, 
regretful  tone  of  voice,  irreconcileable  with  his  eager  eye. 
**  Pray  forgive  me.  I  forget  these  chains  of  association  in 
the  interest  I  have.     Pray  forgive  me." 

But  for  all  he  said,  his  eager  eye  scanned  Mr.  Dombey's 
downcast  face  none  the  less  closely  ;  and  then  it  shot  a 
strange  triumphant  look  at  the  picture,  as  appealing  to  it 
to  bear  witness  how  he  led  him  on  again,  and  what  was 
coming. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  here  and  there  upon 
the  table,  and  speaking  in  a  somewhat  altered  and  more 
hurried  voice,  and  with  a  paler  lip,  "  there   is  no  occasion 


596  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

for  apology.  You  mistake.  The  association  is  with  the 
matter  in  hand,  and  not  with  any  recollection,  as  you 
suppose.  I  do  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  behavior 
toward  my  daughter." 

**  Pardon  me,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "  I  don't  quite  under- 
stand." 

"  Understand  then,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  "  that  you 
may  make  that — that  you  will  make  that,  if  you  please — 
matter  of  direct  objection  from  me  to  Mrs.  Dombey.  You 
will  please  to  tell  her  that  her  show  of  devotion  for  my 
daughter  is  disagreeable  to  me.  It  is  likely  to  be  noticed. 
It  is  likely  to  induce  people  to  contrast  Mrs.  Dombey  in  her 
relation  toward  my  daughter,  with  Mrs.  Dombey  in  her 
relation  toward  myself.  You  will  have  the  goodness  to  let 
Mrs.  Dombey  know,  plainly,  that  I  object  to  it ;  and  that  I 
expect  her  to  defer,  immediately,  to  my  objection.  Mrs. 
Dombey  may  be  in  earnest,  or  she  may  be  pursuing  a  whim, 
or  she  may  be  opposing  me  ;  but  I  object  to  it  in  any  case, 
and  in  every  case.  If  Mrs.  Dombey  is  in  earnest,  so  much  the 
less  reluctant  should  she  be  to  desist  ;  for  she  will  not 
serve  my  daughter  by  any  such  display.  If  my  wife  has 
any  superfluous  gentleness  and  duty  over  and  above  her 
proper  submission  to  me,  she  may  bestow  them  where  she 
pleases,  perhaps  ;  but  I  will  have  submission  first  ! — Car- 
ker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  checking  the  unusual  emotion  with 
which  he  had  spoken,  and  falling  into  a  tone  more  like  that 
in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  assert  his  greatness,  *'  You 
will  have  the  goodness  not  to  omit  or  slur  this  point,  but  to 
consider  it  a  very  important  part  of  your  instructions." 

Mr.  Carker  bowed  his  head,  and  rising  from  the  table, 
and  standing  thoughtfully  before  the  fire,  with  his  hand  to 
his  smooth  chin,  looked  down  at  Mr.  Dombey  with  the  evil 
slyness  of  some  monkish  carving,  half  human  and  half 
brute  ;  or  like  a  leering  face  on  an  old  water-spout.  Mr. 
Dombey,  recovering  his  composure  by  degrees,  or  cooling 
his  emotion  in  his  sense  of  having  taken  a  high  position,  sat 
gradually  stiffening  again,  and  looking  at  the  parrot  as  she 
swung  to  and  fro,  in  her  great  wedding-ring. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Carker,  after  a  silence,  sud- 
denly resuming  his  chair,  and  drawing  it  opposite  to  Mr. 
Dombey's,  "  but  let  me  understand.  Mrs.  Dombey  is  aware 
of  the  probability  of  your  making  me  the  organ  of  your  dis- 
pleasure ? " 

"  Yes/'  replied  Mr.  Dombey,     "  I  have  said  so." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  597 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  Carker,  quickly  ;   "  but  why  ?  " 

*•'  Why  !  "  Mr.  Dombey  repeated,  not  without  hesitation. 
'Because  I  told  her." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Carker.  ''  But  why  did  you  tell  her  ?  You 
see,"  he  continued  with  a  smile,  and  softly  laying  his  velvet 
hand,  as  a  cat  might  have  laid  its  sheathed  claws,  on  Mr. 
Dombey's  arm  ;  "  if  I  perfectly  understand  what  is  in  your 
mind,  I  am  so  much  more  likely  to  be  useful,  and  to  have 
the  happiness  of  being  effectually  employed.  I  think'I  do 
understand.  I  have  not  the  honor  of  i\Irs.  Dombey's  good 
opinion.  In  my  position,  I  have  no  reason  to  expect  it ;  but 
I  take  the  fact  to  be,  that  I  have  not  got  it  ?  " 

"  Possibly  not,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"Consequently,"  pursued  Carker,  "your  making  these 
communications  to  Mrs.  Dombey  through  me,  is  sure  to  be 
particularly  unpalatable  to  that  lady  ?  " 

''  It  appears  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  haughty 
reserve,  and  yet  with  some  embarrassment,  "  that  Mrs. 
Dombey's  views  upon  the  subject  form  no  part  of  it  as  it 
presents  itself  to  you  and  me,  Carker.     But  it  may  be  so." 

"  And — pardon  me — do  I  misconceive  you,"  said  Carker, 
"  when  I  think  you  descry  in  this  a  likely  means  of  humbling 
Mrs.  Dombey's  pride — 1  use  the  word  as  expressive  of  a 
quality  wliich,  kept  within  due  bounds,  adorns  and  graces  a 
lady  so  distinguished  for  her  beauty  and  accomplishments — 
and,  not  to  say  of  punishing  her,  but  of  reducing  her  to  the 
submission  you  so  naturally  and  justly  require  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  accustomed,  Carker,  as  you  know,"  said  Mr. 
Dombey,  "  to  give  such  close  reasons  for  any  course  of  con- 
duct I  think  proper  to  adopt,  but  I  will  gainsay  nothing  of 
this.  If  you  have  any  objection  to  found  upon  it,  that  is 
indeed  another  thing,  and  the  mere  statement  that  you  have 
one  will  be  sufficient.  But  I  have  not  supposed,  I  confess, 
that  any  confidence  I  could  intrust  to  you  would  be  likely 
to  degrade  you — " 

"  Oh  I  /  degraded  !  "  exclaimed  Carker.  "  In  your 
service  !  " 

"  — or  to  place  you,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  "  in  a  false 
position." 

"  /  in  a  false  position  !  "  exclaimed  Carker.  "  I  shall  be 
proud — delighted — to  execute  your  trust.  I  could  have 
wished,  I  own,  to  have  given  the  lady  at  whose  feet  I  would 
lay  my  humble  duty  and  devotion — for  is  she  not  your 
wife  ! — no  new  cause  of  dislike  ;  but  a  wish  from  you  is,  of 


598  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

course,  paramount  to  every  other  consideration  on  earth. 
Besides,  when  Mrs.  Dombey  is  converted  from  these  little 
errors  of  judgment,  incidental,  I  would  presume  to  say,  to 
the  novelty  of  her  situation,  I  shall  hope  that  she  will  per- 
ceive in  the  slight  part  I  take  only  a  grain — my  removed 
and  different  sphere  gives  room  for  little  more — of  the 
respect  for  you,  and  sacrifice  of  all  considerations  to  you,  of 
which  it  will  be  her  pleasure  and  privilege  to  garner  up  a 
great  store  every  day." 

Mr.  Dombey  seemed,  at  the  moment,  again  to  see  her  with 
her  hand  stretched  out  toward  the  door,  and  again  to  hear 
through  the  mild  speech  of  his  confidential  agent  an  echo 
of  the  words,  ''  Nothing  can  make  us  stranger  to  each  other 
than  we  are  henceforth  !  "  But  he  shook  off  the  fancy,  and 
did  not  shake  in  his  resolution,  and  said,  "  Certainly,  no 
doubt." 

*'  There  is  nothing  more,"  quoth  Carker,  drawing  his  chair 
back  to  its  old  place — for  they  had  taken  little  breakfast  as 
yet — and  pausing  for  an  answer  before  he  sat  down. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  but  this.  You  will  be 
good  enough  to  observe,  Carker,  that  no  message  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  with  which  you  are  or  may  be  charged  admits  of 
reply.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  bring  me  no  reply. 
Mrs.  Dombey  is  informed  that  it  does  not  become  me  to 
temporize  or  treat  upon  any  matter  that  is  at  issue  between 
us,  and  that  what  I  say  is  final." 

Mr.  Carker  signified  his  understanding  of  these  credentials, 
and  they  fell  to  breakfast  with  what  appetite  they  might. 
The  grinder  also,  in  due  time,  reappeared,  keeping  his  e3^es 
upon  his  master  without  a  moment's  respite,  and  passing  the 
time  in  a  reverie  of  worshipful  terror.  Breakfast  concluded, 
Mr.  Dombey's  horse  was  ordered  out  again,  and  Mr. 
Carker  mounting  his  own,  they  rode  off  for  the  city  to- 
gether. 

Mr.  Carker  was  in  capital  spirits,  and  talked  much.  Mr. 
Dombey  received  his  conversation  with  the  sovereign  air  of 
a  man  who  had  a  right  to  be  talked  to,  and  occasionally 
condescended  to  throw  in  a  few  words  to  carry  on  the  con- 
versation. So  they  rode  on  characteristically  enough.  But 
Mr.  Dombey,  in  his  dignity,  rode  with  very  long  stirrups, 
and  a  very  loose  rein,  and  very  rarely  deigned  to  look  down 
to  see  where  his  horse  went.  In  consequence  of  which  it 
happened  that  Mr.  Dombey's  horse,  while  going  at  a  round 
trot,  stumbled  on  some  loose  stones,  threw  him,  rolled  over 


DOM  BEY    AND    SON.  599 

him,  and  lashing  out  with  his  iron-shod  feet,  in  his  struggles 
to  get  up,  kicked  him. 

Mr.  Carker,  quick  of  eye,  steady  of  hand,  and  a  good 
horseman,  was  afoot,  and  had  the  strugghng  animal  upon 
his  legs  and  by  the  bridle  in  a  moment.  Otherwise  that 
morning's  confidence  would  have  been  Mr.  Dombey's  last. 
Yet  even  with  the  flush  and  hurry  of  tlus  action  red  upon 
him,  he  bent  over  his  prostrate  chief  with  every  tooth  dis- 
closed, and  muttered  as  he  stooped  down,  "  I  have  given 
good  cause  of  offense  to  Mrs.  Dombey //^z£/  if  she  knew  it  ! " 

Mr.  Dombey  being  insensible,  and  bleeding  from  the  head 
and  face,  was  carried  by  certain  menders  of  the  road,  under 
Carker's  direction,  to  the  nearest  public-house,  which  wasr 
not  far  off,  and  where  he  was  soon  attended  by  divers  sur- 
geons, vv'ho  arrived  in  quick  succession  from  all  parts,  and 
who  seemed  to  come  by  some  mysterious  instinct,  as 
vultures  are  said  to  gather  about  a  camel  who  dies  in 
the  desert.  After  being  at  some  pains  to  restore  him  to 
consciousness,  these  gentlemen  examined  into  the  nature 
of  his  injuries.  One  surgeon  who  lived  hard  by  was 
strong  for  a  compound  fracture  of  the  leg,  which  was  the 
landlord's  opinion  also  ;  but  the  two  surgeons  who  lived  at  a 
distance,  and  were  only  in  that  neighborhood  by  accident, 
combated  this  opinion  so  disinterestedly,that  it  was  decided  at 
last  that  the  patient,  though  severely  cut  and  bruised,  had 
broken  no  bones  but  a  lesser  rib  or  so,  and  might  be  care- 
fully taken  home  before  night.  His  injuries  being  dressed 
and  bandaged,  which  was  a  long  operation,  and  he  at  length 
left  to  repose,  Mr.  Carker  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  away 
to  carry  the  intelligence  home. 

Crafty  and  cruel  as  his  face  was  at  the  best  of  times, 
though  it  was  a  sufficiently  fair  face  as  to  form  and  regularity 
of  feature,  it  was  at  its  worst  when  he  set  forth  on  this 
errand  ;  animated  by  the  craft  and  cruelty  of  thoughts 
within  him,  suggestions  of  remote  possibility  rather  than 
of  design  or  plot,  that  made  him  ride  as  if  he  hunted  men 
and  women.  Drawing  rein  at  length  and  slackening  his 
speed,  as  he  came  into  the  more  public  roads,  he  checked 
his  white-legged  horse  into  picking  his  way  along  as  usual, 
and  hid  himself  beneath  his  sleek,  hushed,  crouched  manner, 
and  his  ivory  smile,  as  he  best  could. 

He  rode  direct  to  ^Mr.  Dombey's  house,  alighted  at  the 
door  and  begged  to  see  Mrs.  Dombey  on  an  affair  of  import- 
ance.    The  servant  who  showed  him  to  Mr.   Dombey's  own 


6oo  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

room,  soon  returned  to  say  it  was  not  Mrs.  Dombey's  hour 
for  receiving  visitors,  and  he  then  begged  pardon  for  not 
having  mentioned  it  before. 

Mr.  Carker,  who  was  quite  prepared  for  a  cold  reception, 
wrote  upon  a  card  that  he  must  take  the  Hberty  of  pressing 
an  interview,  and  that  he  would  not  be  so  bold  as  to  do  so, 
for  the  second  time  (this  he  underlined),  if  he  were  not 
equally  sure  of  the  occasion  being  sufficient  for  his  justifica- 
tion. After  a  trifling  delay,  Mrs.  Dombey's  maid  appeared, 
and  conducted  him  to  a  morning  room  up-stairs,  where  Edith 
and  Florence  were  together. 

He  had  never  thought  Edith  half  so  'beautiful  before. 
Much  as  he  admired  the  graces  of  her  face  and  form,  and 
freshly  as  they  dwelt  within  his  sensual  remembrance,  he  had 
never  thought  her  half  so  beautiful. 

Her  glance  fell  haughtily  upon  him  in  the  doorway  ;  but 
he  looked  at  Florence — though  only  in  the  act  of  bending 
his  head,  as  he  came  in — with  some  irrepressible  impression 
of  the  new  power  he  held  ;  and  it  was  his  triumph  to  see 
the  glance  droop  and  falter,  and  to  see  that  Edith  half  rose 
up  to  receive  him. 

He  was  very  sorry,  he  was  deeply  grieved  ;  he  couldn't 
say  with  what  unwillingness  he  came  to  prepare  her  for  the 
intelligence  of  a  very  slight  accident.  He  entreated  Mrs. 
Dombey  to  compose  herself.  Upon  his  sacred  word  of 
honor,  there  was  no  cause  for  alarms     But  Mr.  Dombey — 

Florence  uttered  a  sudden  cry.  He  did  not  look  at  her 
but  at  Edith.  Edith  composed  and  re-assured  her.  She 
uttered  no  cry  of  distress.     No,  no. 

Mr.  Dombey  had  met  with  an  accident  in  riding.  His 
horse  had  slipped,  and  he  had  been  thrown. 

Florence  wildly  exclaimed  that  he  was  badly  hurt  ;  that  he 
was  killed. 

No.  Upon  his  honor,  Mr.  Dombey,  though  stunned  at 
first,  was  soon  recovered,  and  though  certainly  hurt  was  in 
no  danger.  If  this  were  not  the  truth,  he,  the  distressed 
intruder,  never  could  have  had  the  courage  to  present  him- 
self before  Mrs.  Dombey.  It  was  the  truth,  indeed,  he 
solemnly  assured  her. 

All  this  he  said  as  if  he  were  answering  Edith,  and  not 
Florence,  and  with  his  eyes  and  his  smile  fastened  on  Edith. 

He  then  went  on  to  tell  her  where  Mr.  Dombey  was  lying, 
and  to  request  that  a  carriage  might  be  placed  at  his  dis- 
posal to  bring  him  home. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  60 1 

"  Mamma,"  faltered  Florence  in  tears,  "  if  I  might 
venture  to  go  !  " 

Mr.  Carker,  having  his  eyes  on  Edith  when  he  heard  these 
words  gave  her  a  secret  look  and  slightly  shook  his  head. 
He  saw  how  she  battled  with  herself  before  she  answered 
hiifi  with  her  handsome  eyes,  but  he  wrested  the  answer 
from  her — he  showed  her  that  he  would  have  it,  or  that  he 
would  speak  and  cut  Florence  to  the  heart — and  she  gave  it 
to  him.  As  he  had  looked  at  the  picture  in  the  morning, 
so  he  looked  at  her  afterward,  when  she  turned  her  eyes 
away. 

"  I  am  directed  to  request,"  he  said,  ''  that  the  new  house- 
keeper— Mrs.  Pipchin,  I  think  is  the  name — " 

Nothing  escaped  him.  He  saw  in  an  instant  that  she  was 
another  slight  of  Mr.  Dombey's  on  his  wife. 

'* — may  be  informed  that  Mrs.  Dombey  wishes  to  have  his 
bed  prepared  in  his  own  apartments  down-stairs,  as  he  pre- 
fers those  rooms  to  any  other.  I  shall  return  to  Mr. 
Dombey  almost  immediately.  That  every  possible  attention 
has  been  paid  to  his  comfort,  and  that  he  is  the  object  of 
every  possible  solicitude,  I  need  not  assure  you,  madam. 
Let  me  again  say,  there  is  no  cause  for  the  least  alarm.  Even 
you  may  be  quite  at  ease,  believe  me." 

He  bowed  himself  out,  with  his  extremest  show  of  defer- 
ence and  conciliation  ;  and  having  returned  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
room,  and  there  arranged  for  a  carriage  being  sent  after  him 
to  the  city,  mounted  his  horse  again,  and  rode  slowly 
thither.  He  was  very  thoughtful  as  he  went  along  and  was 
very  thoughtful  there,  and  very  thoughtful  in  the  carriage 
on  the  way  back  to  the  place  where  Mr.  Dombey  had  been 
left.  It  was  only  when  he  was  sitting  by  that  gentleman's 
couch  that  he  was  quite  himself  again,  and  conscious  of  his 
teeth. 

About  the  time  of  twilight,  Mr.  Dombey,  grievously 
afflicted  with  aches  and  pains,  was  helped  into  his  carriage, 
and  propped  with  cloaks  and  pillows  on  one  side  of  it,  while 
his  confidential  agent  bore  him  company  upon  the  other.  As 
he  was  not  to  be  shaken,  they  moved  at  a  little  more  than  a 
foot  pace  ;  and  hence  it  was  quite  dark  when  he  was  brought 
home.  Mrs.  Pipchin,  bitter  and  grim,  and  not  oblivious  of  the 
Peruvian  mines,  as  the  establishment  in  general  had  good 
reason  to  know,  received  him  at  the  door,  and  freshened  the 
domestics  with  several  little  sprinklings  of  wordy  vinegar, 
while  they   assisted   in  conveying    him    to    his  room.     Mr. 


602  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

Carker  remained  in  attendance  until  he  was  safe  in  bed,  and 
then  as  he  declined  to  receive  any  female  visitor  but  the 
excellent  ogress  who  presided  over  his  household,  waited 
on  Mrs.  Dombey  once  more,  with  his  report  on  her  lord's 
condition. 

He  again  found  Edith  alone  with  Florence,  and  he  again 
addressed  the  whole  of  his  soothing  speech  to  Edith,  as  if 
she  were  a  prey  to  the  liveliest  and  most  affectionate  anxie- 
ties. So  earnest  he  was  in  his  respectful  sympathy,  that,  on 
taking  leave,  he  ventured — with  one  more  glance  toward 
Florence  at  the  moment — to  take  her  hand,  and  bending 
over  it,  to  touch  it  with  his  lips. 

Edith  did  not  withdraw  the  hand,  nor  did  she  strike  his 
fair  face  with  it,  despite  the  flush  upon  her  cheek,  the  bright 
light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  dilation  of  her  whole  form..  But 
when  she  was  alone  in  her  own  room,  she  struck  it  on  the 
marble  chimney-shelf,  so  that,  at  one  blow,  it  was  bruised, 
and  bled;  and  held  it  from  her,  near  the  shining  fire,  as  if 
she  could  have  thrust  it  in  and  burned  it. 

Far  into  the  night  she  sat  alone,  by  the  sinking  blaze,  in 
dark  and  threatening  beauty,  watching  the  murky  shadows 
looming  on  the  wall,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  tangible,  and 
cast  them  there.  Whatever  shapes  of  outrage  and  affront, 
and  black  foreshadowings  of  things  that  might  happen,  flick- 
ered indistinct  and  giant-like  before  her,  one  resented  figure 
marshaled  them  against  her.  And  that  figure  was  her  hus- 
band. 

CHAPTER  XLHI. 

THE  WATCHES  OF  THE   NIGHT. 

Florence,  long  since  awakened  from  her  dream,  mourn- 
fully observed  the  estrangement  between  her  father  and 
Edith,  and  saw  it  v^^iden  more  and  more,  and  knew  that 
there  was  greater  bitterness  between  them  every  day.  Each 
day's  added  knowledge  deepened  the  shade  upon  her  love 
and  hope,  roused  up  the  old  sorrow  that  had  slumbered  for 
a  little  time,  and  made  it  even  heavier  to  bear  than  it  had 
been  before. 

It  had  been  hard—how  hard  may  none  but  Florence  ever 
know  ! — to  have  the  natural  affection  of  a  true  and  earnest 
affection  turned  to  agony;  and  slight,  or  stern  repulse,  sub- 
stituted for  the  tenderest  protection  a^^^    the  dearest  care. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  603 

It  had  been  hard  to  feel  in  her  deep  heart  what  she  had  felt, 
and  never  know  the  happiness  of  one  touch  of  response. 
But  it  was  much  more  hard  to  be  compelled  to  doubt  either 
her  father  or  Edith,  so  affectionate  and  dear  to  her,  and  to 
think  of  her  love  for  each  of  them,  by  turns,  with  fear,  dis- 
trust, and  wonder. 

Yet  Florence  now  began  to  do  so  ;  and  the  doing  of  it 
was  a  task  imposed  upon  her  by  the  very  purity  of  her  soul, 
as  one  she  could  not  fly  from.  She  saw  her  father 
cold  and  obdurate  to  Edith,  as  to  her;  hard,  inflexible, 
unyielding.  Could  it  be,  she  asked  herself  with  start- 
ing tears,  that  her  own  dear  mother  had  been  made 
unhappy  by  such  treatment,  and  had  pined  away  and 
died  ?  Then  she  would  think  how  proud  and  stately  Edith 
was  to  every  one  but  her,  with  what  disdain  she  treated 
him,  how  distantly  she  kept  apart  from  him,  and  what  she  had 
said  on  the  night  she  came  home;  and  quickly  it  would  come 
on  Florence,  almost  as  a  crime,  that  she  loved  one  who  was  set 
in  opposition  to  her  father,  and  that  her  father  knowing  of  it 
must  think  of  her  in  his  solitary  room  as  the  unnatural  child 
who  added  this  wrong  to  the  old  fault,  so  much  wept  for,  of 
never  having  won  his  fatherly  affection  from  her  birth.  The 
next  kind  word  from  Edith,  the  next  kind  glance,  would 
shake  these  thoughts  again,  and  make  them  seem  like  black 
ingratitude  ;  for  who  but  she  had  cheered  the  drooping  heart 
of  Florence,  so  lonely  and  so  hurt,  and  been  its  best  of  com- 
forters !  Thus,  with  her  gentle  nature  yearning  to  them 
both,  feeling  the  misery  of  both,  Florence  in  her  wider  and 
more  expanded  love,  and  by  the  side  of  Edith,  endured 
more  than  when  she  had  hoarded  up  her  undivided  secret 
in  the  mournful  house,  and  her  beautiful  mamma  had  never 
dawned  upon  it. 

One  exquisite  unhappiness  that  would  have  far  outweighed 
this,  Florence  was  spared.  She  never  had  the  least  sus- 
picion that  Edith  by  her  tenderness  for  her  widened  the 
separation  from  her  father,  or  gave  him  new  cause  of  dislike. 
If  Florence  had  conceived  the  possibility  of  such  an  effect 
being  wrought  by  such  a  cause,  what  grief  she  would  have 
felt,  what  sacrifice  she  would  have  tried  to  make,  poor  loving 
girl,  how  fast  and  sure  her  quiet  passage  might  have  been 
beneath  it  to  the  presence  of  that  higher  father  who  does 
not  reject  his  children's  love,  or  spurn  their  tried  and  broken 
hearts,  heaven  knoAvs  I  But  it  was  otherwise,  and  that  was 
weU, 


(5o4  DOMBEY    ANl^    SON. 

No  word  was  ever  spoken  between  Florence  and  Edith 
now  on  these  subjects.  Edith  had  said  there  ought  to  be 
between  them,  in  that  wise,  a  division  and  a  silence  like  the 
grave  itself  ;  and  Florence  felt  that  she  was  right. 

In  this  state  of  affairs  her  father  was  brought  home 
suffering  and  disabled  ;  and  gloomily  retired  to  his  own 
rooms,  where  he  was  tended  by  servants,  not  approached  by 
Edith,  and  had  no  friend  or  companion  but  Mr.  Carker,  who 
withdrew  near  midnight. 

"  And  nice  company  he  is.  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper. 
*'  Oh,  he's  a  precious  piece  of  goods  !  If  ever  he  wants  a 
character  don't  let  him  come  to  me,  whatever  he  does,  that's 
all  I  tell  him." 

"  Dear  Susan,"  urged  Florence,  ''  don't  !  " 

"  Oh,  it's  very  well  to  say  '  don't,'  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the 
Nipper,  much  exasperated  ;  "  but  raly  begging  your  pardon 
we're  coming  to  such  passes  that  it  turns  all  the  blood  in  a 
person's  body  into  pins  and  needles,  with  their  pints  all  ways. 
Don't  mistake  me.  Miss  Floy,  I  don't  mean  nothing  again 
your  ma-in-law  who  has  always  treated  me  as  a  lady  should 
though  she  is  rather  high  I  must  say  not  that  I  have  any 
right  to  object  to  that  particular,  but  when  we  come  to  Mrs. 
Pipchinses  and  having  them  put  over  us  and  keeping  guard 
at  your  pa's  door  like  crocodiles  (only  make  us  thankful  that 
they  lay  no  eggs  !)  we  are  a-growing  too  outrageous  !  " 

"  Papa  thinks  well  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  Susan,"  returned 
Florence,  *'  and  has  a  right  to  choose  his  housekeeper,  you 
know.     Pray  don't  !  " 

"  Well,  Miss  Floy,"  returned  the  Nipper,  "  when  you  say 
don't,  I  never  do  I  hope  but  Mrs.  Pipchin  acts  like  early 
gooseberries  upon  me,  miss,  and  nothing  less." 

Susan  was  unusually  emphatic  and  destitute  of  punctuation 
in  her  discourse  on  this  night,  which  was  the  night  of  Mr. 
Dombey's  being  brought  home,  because,  having  been  sent 
down-stairs  by  Florence  to  inquire  after  him,  she  had  been 
obliged  to  deliver  her  message  to  her  mortal  enemy  Mrs. 
Pipchin;  who  without  carrying  it  in  to  Mr.  Dombey,  had  taken 
upon  herself  to  return  what  Miss  Nipper  called  a  huffish 
answer,  on  her  own  responsibility,  1'his  Susan  Nipper  con- 
strued into  presumption  on  the  part  of  that  exemplary 
sufferer  by  the  Peruvian  mines,  and  a  deed  of  disparage- 
ment upon  her  young  lady,  that  was  not  to  be  forgiven  ;  and 
so  far  her  emphatic  state  was  special.  But  she  had  been  in 
a  condition  of  greatly  increased  suspicion  and  distrust,  ever 


DOAIBEY   AND    SON.  605 

since  the  marriage  ;  for,  like  most  persons  of  her  quality  of 
mind,  who  form  a  strong  and  sincere  attachment  to  one  in 
the  different  station  which  Florence  occupied,  Susan  was 
very  jealous,  and  her  jealousy  naturally  attached  to  Edith, 
who  divided  her  old  empire,  and  came  between  them.  Proud 
and  glad  as  Susan  Nipper  truly  was  that  her  young  mistress 
should  be  advanced  toward  her  proper  place  in  the  scene  of 
her  old  neglect,  and  that  she.  should  have  her  father's  hand- 
some wife  for  her  companion  and  protectress,  she  could  not 
relinquish  any  part  of  her  own  dominion  to  the  handsome 
wife,  without  a  grudge  and  a  vague  feeling  of  ill-will,  for  which 
she  did  not  fail  to  find  a  disinterested  justification  in  her 
sharp  perception  of  the  pride  and  passion  of  the  lady's  char- 
acter. From  the  background  to"  which  she  had  neces- 
sarily retired  somewhat,  since  the  marriage.  Miss  Nipper 
looked  on,  therefore,  at  domestic  affairs  in  general,  with  a 
resolute  conviction  that  no  good  would  come  of  Mrs. 
Dombey  ;  always  being  very  careful  to  publish  on  all 
possible  occasions,  that  she  had  nothing  to  say  against  her. 

"  Susan,"  said  Florence,  who  was  sitting  thoughtfully 
at  her  table,  *'  it  is  very  late.  I  shall  want  nothing  more 
to-night." 

''  Ah,  Miss  Floy  !  "  returned  the  Nipper,  "  I'm  sure  I  often 
wish  for  them  old  times  when  I  sat  up  with  you  hours 
later  than  this  and  fell  asleep  through  becoming  tired  out 
when  you  was  as  broad  awake  as  spectacles,  but  )^ou've  ma's- 
in-law  to  come  and  sit  with  you  now  Miss  Floy  and  I'm 
thankful  for  it  I'm  sure.  I've  not  a  word  to  say  against 
'em." 

"  I  shall  not  forget  who  was  my  old  companion  when  I 
had  none,  Susan,"  returned  Florence,  gently,  "never!" 
And  looking  up,  she  put  her  arm  round  the  neck  of  her 
humble  friend,  drew  her  face  down  to  hers,  and  bidding  her 
good-night,  kissed  it  ;  which  so  modified  Miss  Nipper  that 
she  fell  a-sobbing. 

''  Now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan.  "  Let  me  go  down- 
stairs and  see  how  your  pa  is,  I  know  you're  wretched  about 
him,  do  let  me  go  down-stairs  again  and  knock  at  his  door 
my  own  self." 

'^  No,"  said  Florence,  "  go  to  bed.  We  shall  hear  more 
in  the  morning.  I  will  inquire  myself  in  the  morning. 
Mamma  has  been  down,  I  dare  say  ;  "  Florence  blushed, 
for  she  had  no  such  hope  ;  *'  or  is  there  now,  perhaps.  Good- 
night !  " 


6o6  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

Susan  was  too  much  softened  to  express  her  private 
opinion  on  the  probability  of  Mrs.  Dombey's  being  in 
attendance  on  her  husband  ;  and  silently  withdrew.  Florence 
left  alone,  soon  hid  her  head  upon  her  hands  as  she  had 
often  done  in  other  days,  and  did  not  restrain  the  tears  from 
coursing  down  her  face.  The  misery  of  this  domestic 
discord  and  unhappiness  ;  the  withered  hope  she  cherished 
now,  if  hope  it  could  be  called,  of  ever  being  taken  to  her 
father's  heart  ;  her  doubts  and  fears  between  the  two  ;  the 
yearning  of  her  innocent  breast  to  both  ;  the  heavy  disap- 
pointment and  regret  of  such  an  end  as  this,  to  what  had 
been  a  vision  of  bright  hope  and  promise  to  her  ;  all  crowded 
on  her  mind  and  made  her  tears  flow  fast.  Her  mother 
and  her  brother  dead,  her  father  unmoved  toward  her, 
Edith  opposed  to  him  and  casting  him  away,  but  loving 
her,  and  loved  by  her,  it  seemed  as  if  her  affection  could 
never  prosper,  rest  where  it  would.  That  weak  thought  was 
soon  hushed,  but  the  thoughts  in  which  it  had  arisen  were 
too  true  and  strong  to  be  dismissed  with  it  ;  and  they  made 
the  night  desolate. 

Among  such  reflections  there  rose  up,  as  there  had  risen  up 
all  day,  the  image  of  her  father,  wounded  and  in  pain,  alone 
in  his  own  room,  untended  by  those  who  should  be  nearest  to 
him,  and  passing  the  tardy  hours  in  lonely  suffering.  A 
frightened  thought  which  made  her  start  and  clasp  her  hands — 
though  it  was  not  a  new  one  in  her  mind — that  he  might  die, 
and  never  see  her  or  pronounce  her  name,  thrilled  her  whole 
frame.  In  her  agitation  she  thought,  and  trembled  while  she 
thought,  of  once  more  stealing  down-stairs,  and  venturing  to 
his  door. 

She  listened  at  her  own.  The  house  was  quiet,  and  all  the 
lights  were  out.  It  was  a  long,  long  time,  she  thought,  since 
she  used  to  make  her  nightly  pilgrimages  to  his  door  !  It 
was  a  long,  long  time,  she  tried  to  think,  since  she  had 
entered  his  room  at  midnight,  and  he  had  led  her  back  to  the 
stair-foot  ! 

With  the  same  child's  heart  within  her  as  of  'old  ;  even 
with  the  child's  sweet  timid  eyes  and  clustering  hair  ;  Florence, 
as  strange  to  her  father  in  her  early  maiden  bloom  as  in  her 
nursery-time,  crept  down  the  staircase  listening  as  she  went, 
and  drew  near  to  his  room.  No  one  was  stirring  in  the 
house.  The  door  was  partly  open  to  admit  air  ;  and  all  was 
so  still  within,  that  she  could  hear  the  burning  of  tlie  tire, 
and  count  the  ticking  of  the  clock  that  stood  upon  the 
chimney-piece. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  607 

She  looked  in.  In  that  room  the  housekeeper  wrapped  in 
a  blanket  was  fast  asleep  in  an  easy  chair  before  the 
fire.  The  doors  between  it  and  the  next  were  partly  closed, 
and  a  screen  was  drawn  before  them  ;  but  there  was  a  light 
there,  and  it  shone  upon  the  cornice  of  his  bed.  All  was  so 
very  still  that  she  could  hear  from,  his  breathing  that  he  was 
asleep.  This  gave  her  courage  to  pass  around  the  screen,  and 
look  into  his  chamber. 

It  was  as  great  a  start  to  come  upon  his  sleeping  face  as 
if  she  had  not  expected  to  see  it.  Florence  stood  arrested  on 
the  spot,  and  if  he  had  awakened  then,  must  have  remained 
there. 

There  was  a  cut  upon  his  forehead,  and  they  had  been 
wetting  his  hair,  which  lay  bedabbled  and  entangled  on  the 
pillow.  One  of  his  arms  resting  outside  the  bed,  was  band- 
aged up,  and  he  was  very  white.  But  it  was  not  this,  that 
after  the  first  quick  glance,  and  first  assurance  of  his  sleeping 
quietly,  held  Florence  rooted  to  the  ground.  It  was  some- 
thing very  different  from  this,  and  more  than  this  that  made 
him  look  so  solemn  in  her  eyes. 

She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but  there  had 
been  upon  it — or  she  fancied  so— some  disturbing  conscious- 
ness of  her.  She  had  never  seen  his  face  in  all  her  life,  but 
hope  had  sunk  within  her,  and  her  timid  glance  had  drooped 
before  its  stern,  unloving  and  repelling  harshness.  As  she 
looked  upon  it  now,  she  saw  it,  for  the  first  time  free  from  the 
cloud  that  had  darkened  her  childhood.  Calm,  tranquil 
nighr  was  reigning  in  its  stead.  He  might  have  gone  to  sleep 
tor  any  thing  she  saw  there,  blessing  her. 

Awake,  unkind  father  !  Awake,  now,  sullen  man  !  The 
time  is  flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread. 
Awake  ! 

There  was  no  change  upon  his  face  ;  and  as  she  watched 
it,  awfully,  its  motionless  repose  recalled  the  faces  that  were 
gone.  So  they  looked,  so  would  he  ;  so  she,  his  weeping 
child,  who  should  say  when  !  so  all  the  world  of  love  and 
hatred  and  indifference  around  them  !  When  that  time 
should  come,  it  would  not  be  the  heavier  to  him,  for  this  that 
she  was  going  to  do  ;  and  it  might  fall  something  lighter 
upon  her. 

She  stole  close  to  the  bed,  and  drawing  in  her  breath  bent 
down,  and  softly  kissed  him  on  the  face,  and  laid  her  own 
for  one  brief  moment  by  its  side,  and  put  the  _  arm,  with 
which  she  dared  not  touch  him,  round  about  him  on  the 
pillow. 


6o8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Awake,  doomed  man,  while  she  is  near.  The  time  is 
flitting  by  ;  the  hour  is  coming  with  an  angry  tread  ;  its  foot 
is  in  the  house.     AWake  ! 

In  her  mind,  she  prayed  to  God  to  bless  her  father,  and 
to  soften  him  to\vard  her,  if  it  might  be  so  ;  and  if  not,  to 
forgive  him  if  he  was  wrong,  and  pardon  her  the  prayer 
which  almost  seemed  impiety.  And  doing  so,  and  looking 
back  at  him  with  blinded  eyes,  and  stealing  timidly  away, 
passed  out  of  his  room,  and  crossed  the  other,  and  was  gone. 

He  may  sleep  on  now.  He  may  sleep  on  while  he  may. 
But  let  him  look  for  that  slight  figure  when  he  wakes,  and 
find  it  near  him  when  the  hour  is  come  ! 

Sad  and  grieving  was  the  heart  of  Florence  as  she  crept 
up-stairs.  The  quiet  house  had  grown  more  dismal  since 
she  came  down.  The  sleep  she  had  been  looking  on,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  had  the  solemnity  to  her  of  death  and  life  in 
one.  The  secrecy  and  silence  of  her  own  proceeding  made 
the  night  secret,  silent,  and  oppressive.  She  felt  unwilling, 
almost  unable,  to  go  on  to  her  own  chamber  ;  and  turning 
into  the  drawing-rooms,  where  the  clouded  moon  was  shining 
through  the  blinds,  looked  out  into  the  empty  streets. 

The  wind  v/as  blowing  drearily.  The  lamps  looked  pale, 
and  shook  as  if  they  were  cold.  There  was  a  distant  glimmer 
of  something  that  was  not  quite  darkness,  rather  than  of 
light,  in  the  sky  ;  and  foreboding  night  was  shivering  and 
restless,  as  the  dying  are  who  make  a  troubled  end.  Florence 
remembered  how,  as  a  watcher,  by  a  sick-bed,  she  had  noted 
this  bleak  time,  and  felt  its  influence,  as  if  in  some  hidden 
natural  antipathy  to  it  ;  and  now  it  was  very,  very  gloomy. 

Her  mamma  had  not  come  to  her  room  that  night,  which 
was  one  cause  of  her  having  sat  late  out  of  her  bed.  In  her 
general  uneasiness,  no  less  than  in  her  ardent  longing  to  have 
somebody  to  speak  to,  and  to  break  the  spell  of  gloom  and 
silence,  Florence  directed  her  steps  toward  the  chamber 
where  she  slept. 

The  door  was  not  fastened  within,  and  yielded  smoothly 
to  her  hesitating  hand.  She  was  surprised  to  find  a  bright 
light  burning  ;  still  more  surprised,  on  looking  in,  to  see  that 
her  mamma,  but  partially  undressed,  was  sitting  near  the 
ashes  of  the  fire,  which  had  crumbled  and  dropped  away. 
Her  eyes  were  intently  bent  upon  the  air  ;  and  in  their  light, 
and  in  her  face,  and  in  her  form,  and  in  the  grasp  with  v/hich 
she  held  the  elbows  of  her  chair  as  if  about  to  start  up^ 
Florence  saw  such  fierce  emotion  that  it  terrified  her. 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  609 

"  Mamma  !  "  she  cried,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 
Edith   started  ;  looking  at  her  with  such  a  strange  dread 
in  her  face,  that  Florence  was  more  frightened  than  before. 
"  Mamma  !  "  said  Florence,  hurriedly  advancing.     "  Dear 
mamma  !  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  been  well,"  said  Edith,  shaking,  and  still 
looking  at  her  in  the  same  strange  way.  ''  I  have  had  bad 
dreamS;  my  love." 

"  And  not  yet  been  to  bed,  mamm.a  ?  " 
"  No,"  she  returned.     "  Half-waking  dreams." 
Her  features  gradually  softened  ;  and  suffering  Florence 
to  come  close  to  her,  within  her  embrace,  she  said  in  a  tender 
manner,  "  But  what  does  my  bird  do  here  !     What  does  my 
bird  do  here  !  " 

"  I  have  been  uneasy,  mamma,  in  not  seeing  you  to-night, 
and  in  not  knowing  how  papa  was  ;  and  I—" 
Florence  stopped  there,  and  said  no  more. 
"  Is  it  late  ?  "  asked  Edith,  fondly  putting  back  the   curls 
that  mingled  with  her  own  dark  hair,  and  strayed  upon  her 
face. 

"  Very  late.     Near  day." 
''  Near  day  !  "  she  repeated,  in  surprise. 
"  Dear  mamma,  what  have  you  done  to  your  hand  ? "  said 
Florence. 

Edith  drew  it  suddenly  away,  and,  for  a  moment,  looked 
at  her  with  the  same  strange  dread  (there  was  a  sort  of  wild 
avoidance  in  it)  as  before  ;  but  she  p-resently  said,  "  Nothing, 
nothing.  A  blow."  And  then  she  said,  "  My  Florence  !  " 
and  then  her  bosom  heaved,  and  she  was  weeping  pas- 
sionately. 

''  Mamma  !  "  said  Florence.  ''  Oh,  mamma,  what  can  I 
do,  what  should  I  do,  to  make  us  happier  ?  Is  there  any 
thing?" 

"  Nothing,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?  Can  it  never  be  ?  If  I  speak 
now  of  what  is  in  my  thoughts,  in  spite  of  what  we  have 
agreed,"  said  Florence,  "you  will  not  blame  me,  will  you  ?  " 
''  It  is  useless,"  she  replied,  "  useless.  I  have  told  you, 
dear,  that  I  have  had  bad  dreams.  Nothing  can  change 
them,  or  prevent  their  coming  back." 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  said  Florence,  gazing  on  her 
agitated  face,  which  seemed  to  darken  as  she  looked. 

"  I  have  dreamed,"  said  Edith,  in  a  low  voice,  "  of  a  pride 
that  is  all  powerless  for  good,  all  powerful  for  evil  ;  of  a 


010  DOMBEY   AND    SON'. 

pride  that  has  been  galled  and  goaded,  through  many  shame- 
ful years,  and  has  never  recoiled  except  upon  itself  ;  a  pride 
that  has  debased  its  owner  with  the  consciousness  of  deep 
humiliation,  and  never  helped  its  owner  boldly  to  resent  it 
or  avoid  it,  or  to  say,  '  This  shall  not  be  !  '  a  pride  that, 
rightly  guided,  might  have  led  perhaps  to  better  things,  but 
which,  misdirected  and  perverted,  like  all  else  belonging  to 
the  same  possessor,  has  been  self-contempt,  mere  hardihood 
and  ruin  !  " 

She  neither  looked  nor  spoke  to  Florence  now,  but  went 
on  as  if  she  were  alone. 

"I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "  of  such  indifference  and 
callousness,  arising  from  this  self-contempt ;  this  wretched, 
inefficient,  miserable  pride;  that  it  has  gone  on  with  listless 
steps  even  to  the  altar,  yielding  to  the  old,  familiar,  beckon- 
ing finger — oh  mother,  oh  mother  ! — while  it  spurned  it ; 
and  willing  to  be  hateful  to  itself  for  once  and  for  all,  rather 
than  to  be  stung  daily  in  some  new  form.  Mean,  poor 
thing  !  " 

And  now  with  gathering  and  darkening  emotion,  she 
looked  as  she  had  looked  when  Florence'entered. 

"  And  I  have  dreamed,"  she  said,  "that  in  a  first  late 
effort  to  achieve  a  purpose,  it  has  been  trodden  on,  and 
trodden  down  by  a  base  foot,  but  turns  and  looks  upon  him. 
I  have  dreamed  that  it  is  wounded,  hunted,  set  upon  by 
dogs,  but  that  it  stands  at  bay,  and  will  not  yield;  no,  that 
it  can  not  if  it  would;  but  that  it  is  urged  on  to  hate  him, 
rise  against  him,  and  defy  him  !  " 

Her  clenched  hand  tightened  on  the  trembling  arm  she 
had  in  hers,  and  as  she  looked  down  on  the  alarmed  and 
wondering  face,  her  own  subsided.  "  Oh,  Florence  !  "  she 
said,  "  1  think  I  have  been  nearly  mad  to-night  !  "  and 
humbled  her  proud  head  upon  her  neck,  and  wept  again. 

"  Don't  leave  me  !  be  near  me  !  I  have  no  hope  but  in 
you  !  "     These  words  she  said  a  score  of  times. 

Soon  she  grew  calmer,  and  was  full  of  pity  for  the  tears 
of  Florence,  and  for  her  waking  at  such  untimely  hours. 
And  the  day  now  dawning,  Edith  folded  her  in  her  arms 
and  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and,  not  lying  down  her- 
self, sat  by  her,  and  bade  her  try  to  sleep. 

"  For  you  are  weary,  dearest,  and  unhappy,  and  should 
rest." 

"  I  am  indeed  unhappy,  dear  mamma,  to-night,"  said 
Florence,     ''  But  you  are  weary  and  unhappy,  too." 


MISS    DOMBEY,       RETURNED    MR.    TOOTS,    "  IF    YOU  LL    ONLY    NAME    ONE.    YOU'lt, 

you'll    give     ME    AN   APPETITE.       TO   WHICH,"    SAID     MR.      TOOTS,    WiTH    SOME 
8BNT1MENT,    "l   HAVE   LONG   BEEN   A  STRANGER." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  6ii 

*'  Not  when  you  lie  asleep  so  near  me,  sweet." 
They  kissed  each  other,  and  Florence,  worn  ouf,  gradu- 
ally fell  into  a  gentle  slumber;  but  as  her  eyes  closed  on  the 
face  beside  her,  it  was  so  sad  to  think  upon  the  face  down- 
stairs, that  her  hand  drew  closer  to  Edith  for  some  comfort; 
yet,  even  in  the  act,  it  faltered,  lest  it  should  be  deserting 
him.  So,  in  her  sleep,  she  tried  to  reconcile  the  two 
together,  and  to  show  them  that  she  loved  them  both,  but 
could  not  do  it,  and  her  waking  grief  was  part  of  her  dreams. 
Edith,  sitting  by,  looked  down  at  the  dark  eyelashes  lying 
wet  on  the  flushed  cheeks,  and  looked  with  gentleness  and 
pity,  for  she  knew  the  truth.  But  no  sleep  hung  upon  her 
own  eyes.  As  the  day  came  on,  she  still  sat  watching  and 
waking,  with  the  placid  hand  in  hers,  and  sometimes  whis- 
pered, as  she  looked  ac  the  hushed  face,  "  Be  near  me,  Flor- 
ence, I  have  no  hope  but  in  you." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A     SEPARATION. 

With  the  day,  though  not  so  early  as  the  sun,  uprose 
Miss  Susan  Nipper.  There  was  a  heaviness  in  this  young 
maiden's  exceedingly  sharp  black  eyes,  that  abated  some- 
what of  their  sparkling,  and  suggested — which  was  not  their 
usual  character — the  possibility  of  their  being  sometimes 
shut.  There  was  likewise  a  swollen  look  about  them,  as  if 
they  had  been  crying  over  night.  But  the  Nipper,  so  far 
from  being  cast  down,  was  singularly  brisk  and  bold,  and 
all  her  energies  appeared  to  be  braced  up  for  some  great 
feat.  This  was  noticeable  even  in  her  dress,  which  was 
much  more  tight  and  trim  than  usual;  and  in  occasional 
twitches  of  her  head  as  she  went  about  the  house,  which 
were  mightily  expressive  of  determination. 

In  a  word,  she  had  formed  a  determination,  and  an 
aspiring  one  ;  it  being  nothing  less  than  this — to  penetrate 
to  Mr.  Dombey's  presence,  and  have  speech  of  that  gen- 
tleman alone.  "  I  have  often  said  I  would,"  she  remarked, 
in  a  threatening  manner,  to  herself,  that  morning,  with 
many  twitches  of  her  head,  "  and  now  I  will  T' 

Spurring  herself  on  to  the  accomplishment  of  this  desper- 
ate design,  with  a  sharpness  that  was  peculiar  to  herself, 
Susan  Nipper  haunted  the  hall  and    staircase  during    the 


6i2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

whole  forenoon,  without  finding  a  favorable  opportunity  for 
the  assault.  Not  at  all  baffled  by  this  discomfiture,  which 
indeed  had  a  stimulating  effect,  and  put  her  on  her  mettle, 
she  diminished  nothing  of  her  vigilance;  and  at  last  discov- 
ered, toward  evening,  that  her  sworn  foe  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
under  pretense  of  having  sat  up  all  night,  was  dozing  in  her 
own  room,  and  that  Mr.  Dombey  was  lying  on  his  sofa, 
unattended. 

With  a  twitch — not  of  her  head  merely,  this  time,  but  of 
her  whole  self — the  Nipper  went  on  tiptoe  to  Mr.  Dombey's 
door,  and  knocked.  "  Come  in  !  "  said  '  Mr.  Dombey. 
Susan  encouraged  herself  with   a  final  twitch,  and  went  in. 

Mr.  Dombey,  who  was  eying  the  fire,  gave  an  amazed 
look  at  his  visitor,  and  raised  himself  a  little  on  his  arm. 
The  Nipper  dropped  a  courtesy. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Susan. 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  lips  as  if  he  were  repeating  the 
words,  but  he  seemed  so  lost  in  astonishment  at  the  pre- 
sumption of  the  young  woman  as  to  be  incapable  of  giving 
them  utterance. 

"  I  have  been  in  your  service,  sir,"  said  Susan  Nipper, 
with  her  usual  rapidity,  "  now  twelve  year  a-waiting  on  Miss 
Floy  my  own  young  lady  who  couldn't  speak  plain  when  I 
first  come  here  and  I  was  old  in  this  house  when  Mrs.  Rich- 
ards was  new,  I  may  not  be  Meethosalem,  but  I  am  not  a 
child  in  arms." 

Mr.  Dombey,  raised  upon  his  arm  and  looking  at  her, 
offered  no  comment  on   this  preparatory  statement  of  facts. 

"  There  never  was  a  dearer  or  a  blesseder  young  lady 
than  is  my  young  lady,  sir,"  said  Susan,  "and  I  ought  to 
know  a  great  deal  better  than  some  for  I  have  seen  her  in 
her  grief  and  I  have  seen  her  in  her  joy  (there's  not  been 
much  of  it)  and  I  have  seen  her  with  her  brother  and  I  have 
seen  her  in  her  loneliness  and  some  have  never  seen  her, 
and  I  say  to  some  and  all — I  do  !"  and  here  the  black-eyed 
shook  her  head,  and  slightly  stamped  her  foot;  "that  she's 
the  blessedest  and  dearest  angel  is  Miss  Floy  that  ever  drew 
the  breath  of  life,  the  more  I  was  torn  to  pieces  sir  the  more 
I'd  say  it  though  I  may  not  be  a  Fox's  Martyr." 

Mr.  Dombey  turned  yet  paler  than  his  fall  had  made  him, 
with  indignation  and  astonishment ;  and  kept  his  eyes  upon 
the  speaker  as  if  he  accused  them,  and  his  ears  too,  of  playing 
him  false. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  613 

"  No  one  could  be  any  thing  but  true  and  faithful  to  Miss 
Floy,  sir,"  pursued  Susan,  "  and  I  take  no  merit  for  my  ser- 
vice of  twelve  year,  for  I  love  her — yes,  I  say  to  some  and 
all  I  do  !  " — and  here  the  black-eyed  shook  her  head  again, 
and  slightly  stamped  her  foot  again,  and  checked  a  sob  ; 
*'  but  true  and  faithful  service  gives  me  right  to  speak  I 
hope,  and  speak  I  must  and  will  now,  right  or  wrong." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  woman  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey, 
glaring  at  her.     "  How  do  you  dare  ?  " 

*'  What  I  mean,  sir,  is  to  speak  respectful  and  without 
offense,  but  out,  and  how  I  dare  I  know  not  but  I  do  !  "  said 
Susan.  '*  Oh  !  you  don't  know  my  young  lady  sir  you  don't 
indeed  ;  you'd  never  know  so  little  of  her  if  you  did." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  fury,  put  his  hand  out  for  the  bell-rope, 
but  there  was  no  bell-rope  on  that  side  of  the  fire,  and  he 
could  not  rise  and  cross  to  the  other  without  assistance. 
The  quick  eye  of  the  Nipper  detected  his  helplessness 
immediately,  and  now,  as  she  afterward  observed,  she  felt 
she  had  got  him. 

''  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  **  is  the  most  devoted 
and  most  patient  and  most  dutiful  and  beautiful  of  daughters, 
there  ain't  no  gentleman,  no  sir,  though  as  great  and  rich  as 
all  the  greatest  and  richest  of  England  put  together,  but 
might  be  proud  of  her  and  would  and  ought.  If  he  knew 
her  value  right,  he'd  rather  lose  his  greatness  and  his  fortune 
piece  by  piece,  and  beg  his  way  in  rags  from  door  to  door,  I 
say  to  some  and  all,  he  would  ! "  cried  Susan  Nipper, 
bursting  into  tears,  *'  than  bring  the  sorrow  on  her  tender 
heart  that  I  have  seen  it  suffer  in  this  house  !  " 
"  Woman,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  "  leave  the  room." 
*'  Begging  your  pardon,  not  even  if  I  am  to  leave  the 
situation,  sir,"  replied  the  steadfast  Nipper,  "in  which  I 
have  been  so  many  years  and  seen  so  much — although  I 
hope  you'd  never  have  the  heart  to  send  me  from  Miss  Floy 
for  such  a  cause — will  I  go  now  till  I  have  said  the  rest,  I 
may  not  be  a  Indian  widow  sir  and  I  am  not  and  I  would 
not  so  become  but  if  I  once  made  up  my  mind  to  burn 
myself  alive,  I'd  do  it  !  And  I've  made  my  mind  up  to 
go  on." 

Which  was  rendered  no  less  clear  by  the  expression  of 
Susan  Nipper's  countenance  than  by  her  words. 

**  There  ain't  a  person  in  your  service,  sir,"  pursued  the 
black-eyed,  "  that  has  always  stood  more  in  awe  of  you  than 
me,  and  you  may  think  how  true  it  is  v/hen  I  make  so  bold 


6i4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

as  say  that  I  have  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  times  thought 
of  speaking  to  you  and  never  been  able  to  make  my  mind 
up  to  it  till  last  night,  but  last  night  decided  of  me." 

Mr.  Dombey,  in  a  paroxysm  of  rage,  made  another  grasp 
at  the  bell-rope  that  was  not  there,  and,  in  its  absence, 
pulled  his  hair  rather  than  nothing. 

"  I  have  seen,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  Miss  Floy  strive  and 
strive  when  nothing  but  a  child  so  sweet  and  patient  that 
the  best  of  women  might  have  copied  from  her,  I've  seen 
her  sitting  nights  together  half  the  night  through  to  help  her 
delicate  brother  with  his  learning,  I've  seen  her  helping  him 
and  watching  him  at  other  times — some  well  know  when — 
I've  seen  her,  with  no  encouragement  and  no  help,  grow  up 
to  be  a  lady,  thank  God  !  that  is  the  grace  and  pride  of 
every  company  she  goes  in,  and  I've  always  seen  her  cruelly 
neglected  and  keenly  feeling  of  it — I  say  to  some  and  all,  I 
have  ! — and  never  said  one  word,  but  ordering  one's  self 
lowly  and  reverently  toward  one's  betters,  is  not  to  be  a 
worshiper  of  graven  images,  and  I  will  and  must  speak  !  " 

"  Is  there  any  body  there  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  calling 
out.  "  Where  are  the  men  ?  where  are  the  women  ?  Is 
there  no  one  there  ?  " 

"  I  left  my  dear  young  lady  out  of  bed  late  last  night," 
said  Susan,  nothing  checked,  "  and  I  knew  why,  for  you  was 
ill  sir  and  she  didn't  know  how  ill  and  that  was  enough  to 
make  her  wretched  as  I  saw  it  did.  I  may  not  be  a  peacock; 
but  I  have  my  eyes — and  I  sat  up  a  little  in  my  own  room 
thinking  she  might  be  lonesome  and  might  want  me,  and  I 
saw  her  steal  down-stairs  and  come  to  this  door  as  if  it  was 
a  guilty  thing  to  look  at  her  own  pa,  and  then  steal  back 
again  and  go  into  them  lonely  drawing-rooms,  a-crying  so, 
that  I  could  hardly  bear  to  hear  it.  I  can  not  bear  to  hear 
it,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  wiping  her  black  eyes,  and  fixing 
them  undauntingly  on  Mr.  Dombey's  infuriated  face.  "  It's 
not  the  first  time  I  have  heard  it,  not  by  many  and  many  a 
time  you  don't  know  your  own  daughter,  sir,  you  don't  know 
what  you're  doing,  sir,  I  say  to  some  and  all,"  cried  Susan 
Nipper,  in  a  final  burst,  "  that  it's  a  sinful  shame  !  " 

'^  Why,  hoity  toity  !  "  cried  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pipchin,  as 
the  black  bombazeen  garments  of  that  fair  Peruvian  miner 
swept  into  the  room,     "  What's  this,  indeed  !  " 

Susan  favored  Mrs.  Pipchin  with  a  look  she  had  invented 
expressly  for  her  when  they  first  became  acquainted,  and 
resigned  the  reply  to  Mr.  Dombey. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  615 

"  What's  this  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Dombey,  almost  foaming. 
"  What's  this,  madam  ?  You  who  are  at  the  head  of  this 
household,  and  bound  to  keep  it  in  order,  have  reason  to 
inquire.     Do  you  know  this  woman  ? " 

"  I  know  very  little  good  of  her,  sir,"  croaked  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin.  "  How  dare  you  come  here,  you  huzzy  ?  Go  along 
with  you  !  " 

But  the  inflexible  Nipper,  merely  honoring  Mrs.  Pipchin 
with  another  look,  remained. 

"  Do  you  call  it  managing  this  establishment,  madam," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  "  to  leave  a  person  like  this  at  liberty  to 
come  and  talk  to  me  !  A  gentleman — in  his  own  house — in 
his  own  room — assailed  with  the  impertinences  of  women 
servants  ! " 

"  Well,  sir,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  with  vengeance  in  her 
hard  gray  eye,  "  I  exceedingly  deplore  it ;  nothing  can  be 
more  irregular  ;  nothing  can  be  more  out  of  all  bounds  and 
reason  ;  but  I  regret  to  say,  sir,  that  this  young  woman  is 
quite  beyond  control.  She  has  been  spoiled  by  Miss  Dom- 
bey, and  is  amenable  to  nobody.  You  know  you're  not," 
said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sharply,  and  shaking  her  head  at  Susan 
Nipper.     "  For  shame,  you  huzzy  !     Go  along  with  you  !  " 

"  If  you  find  people  in  my  service  who  are  not  to  be  con- 
trolled, Mrs.  Pipchin,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  back 
toward  the  fire,  "  you  know  what  to  do  with  them,  I  presume. 
You  know  what  you  are  here  for  ?  Take  her  away  !  " 

"  Sir,  I  know  what  to  do,"  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  ''  and 
of  course  shall  do  it.  Susan  Nipper,"  snapping  her  up  par- 
ticularly short,   "  a  month's  warning  from  this  hour." 

"  Oh  indeed  !  "  cried  Susan,  loftily. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  don't  smile  at  me, 
you  minx,  or  I'll  know  the  reason  why  !  Go  along  with  you 
this  minute  !  " 

"  I  intend  to  go  this  minute,  you  may  rely  upon  it,"  said 
the  voluble  Nipper.  "  I  have  been  in  this  house  waiting  on 
my  young  lady  a  dozen  year,  and  I  won't  stop  in  it  one  hour 
under  notice  from  a  person  owning  to  the  name  of  Pipchin, 
trust  me,  Mrs.  P." 

"  A  good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish  !  "  said  that  wrathful  old 
lady.     "  Get  along  with  you,  or  I'll  have  you   carried  out !  " 

"  My  comfort  is,"  said  Susan,  looking  back  at  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, "  that  I  have  told  a  piece  of  truth  this  day  which 
ought  to  have  been  told  long  before  and  can't  be  told  too 
often  or  too  plain  and  that  no  amount  of  Pipchinses — I  hope 


6i6  DOmBEY   and   son. 

the  number  of  *em  mayn't  be  great  "  (here  Mrs.  Pipchin 
uttered  a  very  sharp  "  Go  along  with  you  !  "  and  Miss  Nip- 
per repeated  the  look)  "  can  unsay  what  I  have  said,  though 
they  gave  a  whole  year  full  of  warnings  beginning  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  forenoon  and  never  leaving  off  till  twelve  at 
night  and  died  of  the  exhaustion  which  would  be  a 
jubilee  !  " 

With  these  words  Miss  Nipper  preceded  her  foe  out  of 
the  room  ;  and  walking  up-stairs  to  her  o^n  apartment  in 
great  state,  to  the  choking  exasperation  o^  the  ireful  Pipchin, 
sat  down  among  her  boxes  and  began  to  cry. 

From  this  soft  mood  she  was  soon  aroused,  with  a  very 
wholesome  and  refreshing  effect,  by  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin outside  the  door. 

"  Does  that  bold-faced  slut,"  said  the  fell  Pipchin,  "  in- 
tend to  take  her  warning,  or  does  she  not  ?  " 

Miss  Nipper  replied  from  within  that  the  person  described 
did  not  inhabit  that  part  of  the  house,  but  that  her  name 
was  Pipchin,  and  she  was  to  be  found  in  the  housekeeper's 
room. 

"  You  saucy  baggage  !  "  retorted  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rattling  at 
the  handle  of  the  door.  "  Go  along  with  you  this  minute. 
Pack  up  your  things  directly  !  How  dare  you  talk  in  this 
way  to  a  gentlewoman  who  has  seen  better  days  ? " 

To  which  Miss  Nipper  rejoined  from  her  castle  that  she 
pitied  the  better  days  that  had  seen  Mrs.  Pipchin  ;  and  that 
for  her  part  she  considered  the  worst  days  in  the  year  to  be 
about  that  lady's  mark,  except  that  they  were  much  too 
good  for  her. 

"  But  you  needn't  trouble  yourself  to  make  a  noise  at  my 
door,"  said  Susan  Nipper,  "  nor  to  contaminate  the  keyhole 
with  your  eye,  I'm  packing  up  and  going  you  may  take  your 
affidavit." 

The  dowager  expressed  her  lively  satisfaction  at  this 
intelligence,  and  with  some  general  opinions  upon  young 
huzzies  as  a  race,  and  especially  upon  their  demerits  after 
being  spoiled  by  Miss  Dombey,  withdrew  to  prepare  the 
Nipper's  wages.  Susan  then  bestirred  herself  to  get  her 
trunks  in  order,  that  she  might  take  an  immediate  and  dig- 
nified departure  ;  sobbing  heartily  all  the  time,  as  she 
thought  of  Florence. 

The  object  of  her  regret  was  not  long  in  coming  to  her, 
for  the  news  soon  spread  over  the  house  that  Susan  Nipper 
had  had  a  disturbance  with  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  that  they  had 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  617 

both  appealed  to  Mr.  Dombey,  and  that  there  had  been  an 
unprecedented  piece  of  work  in  Mr.  Dombey's  room,  and 
that  Susan  was  going.  The  latter  part  of  this  confused  rumor 
Florence  found  to  be  so  correct,  that  Susan  had  locked  the 
last  trunk,  and  was  sitting  upon  it,  with  her  bonnet  on,  when 
she  came  into  her  room. 

"  Susan  !  "  cried  Florence.     "  Going  to  leave  me  !  You  !  " 

"  Oh  for  goodness  gracious  sake,  Miss  Floy,"  said  Susan, 
sobbing,  "  don't  speak  a  word  to  me  or  I  shall  demean  my- 
self before  them  Pi-i-pchinses,  and  I  wouldn't  have  'em  see 
me  cry  Miss  Floy  for  worlds  !  " 

"  Susan  !  "  said  Florence.  "  My  dear  girl,  my  old  friend  ! 
What  shall  I  do  without  you!   Can  you  bear  to  go  away  so  ?  " 

"  No-n-0-0,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy,  I  can't  indeed," 
sobbed  Susan.  "  But  it  can't  be  helped,  Fve  done  my  duty 
miss,  I  have  indeed.  It's  no  fault  of  mine.  I  am  quite 
resi-igned.  I  couldn't  stay  my  month  or  I  could  never  leave 
you  then  my  darling  and  I  must  at  last  as  well  as  at  first, 
don't  speak  to  me  Miss  Floy,  for  though  Fm  pretty  firm  Fm 
not  a  marble  door-post,  my  own  dear." 

"  What  is  it  !  Why  is  it  ?  "  said  Florence.  "  Won't  you 
tell  me  ?  "     For  Susan  was  shaking  her  head. 

"  No-n-no,  my  darling,"  returned  Susan.  "  Don't  ask  me 
for  I  mustn't,  and  whatever  you  do  don't  put  in  a  word  for 
me  to  stop,  for  it  couldn't  be  and  you'd  only  wrong  yourself 
and  so  God  bless  you  my  own  precious  and  forgive  me  any 
harm  I  have  done,  or  any  temper  I  have  showed  in  all  these 
many  years  !  " 

With  which  entreaty,  very  heartily  delivered,  Susan 
hugged  her  mistress  in  her  arms. 

"  My  darling  there's  a-many  that  may  come  to  serve  you 
and  be  glad  to  serve  you  and  who'll  serve  you  well  and 
true,"  said  Susan,  ''  but  there  can't  be  one  who'll  serve  you 
so  affectionate  as  me  or  love  you  half  as  dearly,  that's  my 
comfort.     Go-ood-bye,  sweet  Miss  Floy  !  " 

"  Where  will  you  go,  Susan  1 "  asked  her  weeping  mis- 
tress. 

"  Fve  got  a  brother  down  in  the  country,  miss — a  farmer 
in  Essex,"  said  the  heart-broken  Nipper,  "  that  keeps  ever 
so  many  co-o-ows  and  pigs  and  I  shall  go  down  there  by  the 
coach  and  sto-op  with  him,  and  don't  mind  me,  for  I've  got 
money  in  the  savings'  banks,  my  dear,  and  needn't  take 
another  service  just  yet,  which  I  couldn't,  couldn't,  couldn't 
do,  my  heart's  own  mistress  !  "  Susan  finished  with  a  burst 


6i8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

of  sorrow,  which  was  opportunely  broken  by  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin  talking  down-stairs  ;  on  hearing  which  she 
dried  her  red  and  swollen  eyes,  and  made  a  melancholy 
feint  of  calling  jauntily  to  Mr.  Towlinson  to  fetch  a  cab  and 
carry  down  her  boxes. 

Florence,  pale  and  hurried  and  distressed,  but  withheld 
from  useless  interference  even  here,  by  her  dread  of  causing 
any  new  division  between  her  father  and  his  wife  (whose 
stern,  indignant  face  had  been  a  warning  to  her  a  few 
moments  since),  and  by  her  apprehension  of  being  in  some 
way  unconsciously  connected  already  with  the  dismissal  of 
her  old  servant  and  friend,  followed,  weeping,  down-stairs  to 
Edith's  dressing-room,  whither  Susan  betook  herself  to  make 
her  parting  courtesy. 

"  Now,  here's  the  cab,  and  here's  the  boxes,  get  along  with 
you,  do  !  "  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presenting  herself  at  the  same 
moment.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,  but  Mr.  Dombey's 
orders  are  imperative." 

Edith  sitting  under  the  hands  of  her  maid — she  was  going 
out  to  dinner — preserved  her  haughty  face,  and  took  not  the 
least  notice. 

"  There's  your  money,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  who  in  pursu- 
ance of  her  system,  and  in  recollection  of  the  mines,  was 
accustomed  to  rout  the  servants  about,  as  she  had  routed 
her  young  Brighton  boarders,  to  the  everlasting  acidulation 
of  Master  Bitherstone,  "  and  the  sooner  this  house  sees  your 
back  the  better." 

Susan  had  no  spirits  even  for  the  look  that  belonged  to 
Mrs.  Pipchin  by  right ;  so  she  dropped  her  courtesy  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  (who  inclined  her  head  without  one  word,  and 
whose  eye  avoided  every  one  but  Florence),  and  gave  one 
last  parting  hug  to  her  young  mistress,  and  received  her 
parting  embrace  in  return.  Poor  Susan's  face  at  this  crisis, 
in  the  intensity  of  her  feelings  and  the  determined  suffoca- 
tion of  her  sobs,  lest  one  should  become  audible  and  be 
a  triumph  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  presented  a  series  of  the 
most  extraordinary  physiognomical  phenomena  ever  wit- 
nessed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Towlinson,  out- 
side the  door  with  the  boxes,  addressing  Florence,  "  but 
Mr.  Toots  is  in  the  drawing-room,  and  sends  his  com- 
pliments, and  begs  to  know  how  Diogenes  and  master 
is." 

Quick  as  thought,  Florence  glided  out  and  hastened  down- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  619 

stairs,  where  Mr.  Toots,  in  the  most  splendid  vestments,  was 
breathing  very  hard  with  doubt  and  agitation  on  the  subject 
of  her  coming. 

"  Oh,  how  de  do,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  God 
bless  my  soul  !  " 

This  last  ejaculation  was  occasioned  by  Mr.  Toots's  deep 
concern  at  the  distress  he  saw  in  Florence's  face  ;  which 
caused  him  to  stop  short  in  a  fit  of  chuckles,  and  become  an 
image  of  despair. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  you  are  so  friendly  to 
me,  and  so  honest,  that  I  am  sure  I  may  ask  a  favor  of 
you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  ''if  you'll  only  name 
one,  you'll — you'll  give  mean  appetite.  To  which,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  with  some    sentiment,   "  I  have  long   been  a  stran- 

"  Susan,  who  is  an  old  friend  of  mine,  the  oldest  friend  I 
have,"  said  Florence,  "  is  about  to  leave  here  suddenly,  and 
quite  alone,  poor  girl.  She  is  going  home,  a  little  way  into 
the  country.  Might  I  ask  you  to  take  care  of  her  until  she 
is  in  the  coach  ?  " 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr,  Toots,  "  you  really  do  me 
an  honor  and  a  kindness.  This  proof  of  your  confidence, 
after  the  manner  in  which  I  was  beast  enough  to  conduct 
myself  at  Brighton — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Florence,  hurriedly — "  no — don't  think  of 
that.  Then  would  you  have  the  kindness  to — to  go  ?  and  to 
be  ready  to  meet  her  when  she  comes  out  ?  Thank  you  a 
thousand  times  !  You  ease  my  mind  so  much.  She  doesn't 
seem  so  desolate.  You  can  not  think  how  grateful  I  feel  to 
you,  or  what  a  good  friend  I  am  sure  you  are  !  "  And  Flor- 
ence, in  her  earnestness,  thanked  him  again  and  again  ;  and 
Mr.  Toots,  in  /its  earnestness,  hurried  away — but  backward, 
that  he  might  lose  no  glimpse  of  her. 

Florence  had  not  the  courage  to  go  out,  when  she  saw 
poor  Susan  in  the  hall,  with  Mrs.  Pipchin  driving  her  forth, 
and  Diogenes  jumping  about  her,  and  terrifying  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin  to  the  last  degree  by  making  snaps  at  her  bombazeen 
skirts,  and  howling  with  anguish  at  the  sound  of  her  voice — 
for  the  good  duenna  vras  the  dearest  and  most  cherished 
aversion  of  his  breast.  But  she  saw  Susan  shake  hands  with 
the  servants  all  around,  and  turn  once  to  look  at  her  old 
home  ;  and  she  saw  Diogenes  bound  out  after  the  cab,  and 
want  to  follow  it.  and  testify  an  impossibility  of  conviction 


620  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  he  had  no  longer  any  property  in  the  fare  ;  and  the 
door  was  shut,  and  the  hurry  over,  and  her  tears  flowed  fast 
for  the  loss  of  an  old  friend  whom  no  one  could  replace. 
No  one.     No  one. 

Mr.  Toots,  like  the  leal  and  trusty  soul  he  was,  stopped 
the  cabriolet  in  a  twinkling,  and  told  Susan  Nipper  of  his 
commission,  at  which  she  cried  more  than  before. 

"  Upon  my  soul  and  body  !''  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  his 
seat  beside  her,  "  I  feel  for  you.  Upon  my  word  and  honor, 
I  think  you  can  hardly  know  your  own  feelings  better  than  I 
imagine  them.  I  can  conceive  nothing  more  dreadful  than 
to  have  to  leave  Miss  Dombey." 

Susan  abandoned  herself  to  her  grief  now,  and  it  really 
was  touching  to  see  her. 

"  I  say,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  now,  don't !  at  least  I  mean 
now  do,  you  know  !  " 

"  Do  what,  Mr.  Toots  ? "  cried  Susan. 

"  Why,  come  home  to  my  place,  and  have  some  dinner 
before  you  start,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  My  cook's  a  most 
respectable  woman — one  of  the  most  motherly  people  I  ever 
saw — and  she'll  be  delighted  to  make  you  comfortable.  Her 
son,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  as  an  additional  recommendation, 
"  was  educated  in  the  bluecoat  school,  and  blown  up  in  a 
powder-mill."  ' 

Susan  accepting  this  kind  offer,  Mr.  Toots  conducted  her 
to  his  dwelling,  where  they  were  received  by  the  matron  in 
question,  who  fully  justified  his  character  of  her,  and  by  the 
Chicken,  who  at  first  supposed,  on  seeing  a  lady  in  the  vehi- 
cle, that  Mr.  Dombey  had  been  doubled  up,  agreeably  to 
his  old  recommendation,  and  Miss  Dombey  abducted. 
This  gentleman  awakened  in  Miss  Nipper  some  considerable 
astonishment  ;  for,  having  been  defeated  by  the  Larkey  Boy, 
his  visage  was  in  a  state  of  such  great  dilapidation,  as  to  be 
hardly  presentable  in  society  with  comfort  to  the  beholders. 
The  Chicken  himself  attributed  this  punishment  to  his  hav- 
ing had  the  misfortune  to  get  into  chancery  early  in  the  pro- 
ceedings, when  he  was  severely  fibbed  by  the  Larkey  one, 
and  heavily  grassed.  But  it  appeared  from  the  published 
records  of  that  great  contest  that  the  Larkey  Boy  had  had  it 
all  his  own  way  from  the  beginniiig,  and  that  the  Chicken 
had  been  tapped,  and  bunged,  and  had  received  pepper,  and 
had  been  made  groggy,  and  had  come  up  piping,  and  had 
endured  a  complication  of  similar  strange  inconveniences^ 
until  he  had  been  gone  into  and  finished. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  621 

After  a  good  repast,  and  much  hospitality,  Susan  set  out 
for  the  coach-office  in  another  cabriolet,  with  Mr.  Toots 
inside,  as  before,  and  the  Chicken  on  the  box,  who,  what- 
ever distinction  he  conferred  on  the  little  party  by  the  moral 
weight  and  heroism  of  his  character,  was  scarcely  ornamen- 
tal to  it,  physically  speaking,  on  account  of  his  plasters, 
which  were  numerous.  But  the  Chicken  had  registered  a 
vow,  in  secret,  that  he  would  never  leave  Mr.  Toots  (who 
was  secretly  pining  to  get  rid  of  him)  for  any  less  considera- 
tion than  the  good-will  and  fixtures  of  a  public-house  ;  and 
being  ambitious  to  go  into  that  line,  and  drink  himself  to 
death  as  soon  as  possible,  he  felt  it  his  cue  to  make  his  com- 
pany unacceptable. 

The  night-coach  by  which  Susan  was  to  go  was  on  the 
point  of  departure.  Mr.  Toots  having  put  her  inside,  lin- 
gered by  the  window,  irresolutely,  until  the  driver  was  about 
to  mount ;  when,  standing  on  the  step,  and  putting  in  a  face 
that  by  the  light  of  the  lamp  was  anxious  and  confused,  he 
said,'  abruptly  : 

"  I  say,  Susan  !     Miss  Dombey,  you  know — ** 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could — you  know — eh  ? " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Susan,  "  but  I  don't 
hear  you." 

"  Do  you  think  she  could  be  brought,  you  know — not 
exactly  at  once,  but  in  time — in  a  long  time — to — to  love 
me,  you  know  !     There  !  "  said  poor  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Oh  dear  no,"  returned  Susan,  shaking  her  head.  '  I 
should  say,  never.     Ne — ver  !  " 

"  Thankee  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots.  "  It's  of  no  consequence. 
Good  night.     It's  of  no  consequence,  thankee  !  " 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE    TRUSTY    AGENT. 

Edith  went  out  alone  that  day,  and  returned  hom.e  early. 
It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  ten  o'clock,  when  her  carriage 
rolled  along  the  street  in  which  she  lived. 

There  was  the  same  enforced  composure  on  her  face  that 
there  had  been  when  she  was  dressing  ;  and  the  wreath  upon 
her  head  encircled  the  same  cold  and  steady  brow.  But  it 
would  have  been  better  to  have  seen  its  leave?,  and  flower? 


622  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

reft  into  fragments  by  her  passionate  hand,  or  rendered 
shapeless  by  the  fitful  searches  of  a  throbbing  and  bewil- 
dered brain  tor  any  resting-place,  than  adorning  such  tran- 
quillity. So  obdurate,  so  unapproachable,  so  unrelenting, 
one  would  have  thought  that  nothing  could  soften  such  a 
woman's  nature,  and  that  every  thing  in  life  had  hardened 
it. 

Arrived  at  her  own  door,  she  was  alighting,  when  some 
one  coming  quietly  from  the  hall,  and  standing  bare-headed, 
offered  her  his  arm.  The  servant  being  thrust  aside,  she 
had  no  choice  but  to  touch  it ;  and  she  then  knew  whose 
arm  it  was. 

"  How  is  your  patient,  sir  ? "  she  said,  with  a  curled 
lip. 

"  He  is  better,"  returned  Carker.  "  He  is  doing  very  well. 
I  have  left  him  for  the  night." 

She  bent  her  head,  and  was  passing  up  the  staircase, 
when  he  followed  and  said,  speaking  at  the  bottom  : 

"  Madam  !  may  I  beg  the  favor  of  a  minute's  audience  ? " 

She  stopped  and  turned  her  eyes  back.  "  It  is  an  unrea- 
sonable time,  sir,  and  I  am  fatigued.  Is  your  business 
urgent  ?  " 

"  It  is  very  urgent,"  returned  Carker.  "  As  I  am  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  met  you,  let  me  press  my  petition." 

She  looked  down  for  a  moment  at  his  glistening  mouth  ; 
and  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  above  him  in  her 
stately  dress,  and  thought,  again,  how  beautiful  she 
was. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Dombey  ? "  she  asked  the  servant, 
aloud. 

"  In  the  morning-room,  ma'am." 

"  Show  the  way  there  !  "  Turning  her  eyes  again  on  the 
attentive  gentleman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  inform- 
ing him,  with  a  slight  motion  of  her  head,  that  he  was  at 
liberty  to  follow,  she  passed  on. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  !  Madam  !  Mrs.  Dombey  !  "  cried 
the  soft  and  nimble  Carker  at  her  side  in  a  moment.  "  May 
I  be  permitted  to  entreat  that  Miss  Dombey  is  not  pres- 
ent !  " 

She  confronted  him  with  a  quick  look,  but  with  the  same 
self-possession  and  steadiness. 

"  I  would  spare  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Carker,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  the  knowledge  of  what  I  have  to  say.  At  least, 
madam,  I  would  leave  it  to  you  to  decide  whether  she  shaH 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  623 

know  of  it  or  not.  I  owe  that  to  you.  It  is  my  boimden 
duty  to  you.  After  our  former  interview,  it  would  be  mon- 
strous in  me  if  I  did  otherwise." 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  eyes  from  his  face,  and  turning 
to  the  servant,  said,  "  Some  other  room."  He  led  the  way 
to  a  drawing-room,  which  he  speedily  lighted  up  and  then 
left  them.  While  he  remained,  not  a  word  was  spoken. 
Edith  enthroned  herself  upon  a  couch  by  the  fire  ; 
and  Mr.  Carker,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  and  his  eyes  bent 
upon  the  carpet,  stood  before  her,  at  some  little  distance. 

"  Before  I  hear  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  when  the  door  was 
closed,  "  I  wish  you  to  hear  me." 

"  To  be  addressed  by  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  returned,  "  even 
in  accents  of  unmerited  reproach,  is  an  honor  I  so  greatly 
esteem,  that  although  I  were  not  her  servant  in  all  things,  I 
should  defer  to  such  a  wish  most  readily." 

"  If  you  are  charged  by  the  man  whom  you  have  just  now 
left,  sir  " — Mr.  Carker  raised  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  going  to 
counterfeit  surprise,  but  she  met  them,  and  stopped  him, 
if  such  were  his  intention — "  with  any  message  to  me,  do 
not  attempt  to  deliver  it,  for  I  will  not  receive  it.  I  need 
scarcely  ask  you  if  you  are  come  on  such  an  errand.  I  have 
expected  you  some  time." 

"It  is  my  misfortune,"  he  replied,"  to  be  here,  wholly  against 
my  will,  for  such  a  purpose.  Allow  me  to  say  that  I  am 
here  for  two  purposes.     That  is  one." 

"That  one,  sir,"  she  returned,  "  is  ended.  "Or  if  you 
return  to  it — " 

"  Can  Mrs.  Dombey  believe,"  said  Carker,  coming  nearer, 
"  that  I  would  return  to  it  in  the  face  of  her  prohibition  ? 
Is  it  possible  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  having  no  regard  to  my 
unfortunate  position,  is  so  determined  to  consider  me  insep- 
arable from  my  instructor  as  to  do  me  great  and  willful  in- 
justice ? " 

"Sir,"  returned  Edith,  bending  her  dark  gaze  full  upon 
him,  and  speaking  with  a  rising  passion  that  inflated  her 
proud  nostril  and  her  swelling  neck,  and  stirred  the  delicate 
white  down  upon  a  robe  she  wore,  thrown  loosely  over 
shoulders  that  could  bear  its  snowy  neighborhood.  "  Why 
do  you  present  yourself  to  me,  as  you  have  done,  and  speak 
to  me  of  love  and  duty  to  my  husband,  and  pretend  to 
think  that  I  am  happily  married,  and  that  I  honor  him  ? 
How  dare  you  venture  so  to  affront  me,  when  you  know — / 
do  not  know  better,  sir  ;  I  have  seen  it  in  your  every  glance, 


624  tDOMBEY  AND  SON. 

and  heard  it  in  your  every  word — that  in  place  of  affection 
between  us  there  is  aversion  and  contempt,  and  that  I  despise 
him  hardly  less  than  I  despise  myself  for  being  his  !  Injus- 
tice !  If  I  had  done  justice  to  the  torment  you  have  made 
me  feel,  and  to  my  sense  of  the  insult  you  have  put  upon  me, 
I  should  have  slain  you  !  " 

She  had  asked  him  why  he  did  this.  Had  she  not  been 
blinded  by  her  pride  and  wrath,  and  self-humiliation — 
which  she  was,  fiercely  as  she  bent  her  gaze  upon  him — she 
would  have  seen  the  answer  in  his  face.  To  bring  her  to 
this  declaration. 

She  saw  it  not,  and  cared  not  whether  it  was  there  or  no. 
She  saw  only  the  indignities  and  struggles  she  had  under- 
gone, and  had  to  undt^rgo,  and  was  writhing  under  them. 
As  she  sat  looking  fixedly  at  them,  rather  than  at  him,  she 
plucked  the  feathers  from  a  pinion  of  some  rare  and  beauti- 
ful bird,  which  hung  from  her  wrist  by  a  golden  thread,  to 
serve  her  as  a  fan,  and  rained  them  on  the  ground. 

He  did  not  shrink  beneath  her  gaze,  but  stood,  until  such 
outward  signs  of  her  anger  as  had  escaped  her  control  sub- 
sided, with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  his  sufficient  reply 
in  reserve  and  would  presently  deliver  it.  And  he  then 
spoke,  looking  straight  into  her  kindling  eyes. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  I  know,  and  knew  before  to-day,  that 
I  have  found  no  favor  with  you  ;  and  I  knew  why.  Yes.  I 
knew  why.  You  have  spoken  so  openly  to  me  ;  I  am  so 
relieved  by  the  possession  of  your  confidence — " 

"  Confidence  !  "  she  repeated,  with  disdain. 

He  passed  it  over. 

"  — that  I  will  make  no  pretense  of  concealment.  I  did  ] 
see  from  the  first  that  there  was  no  affection  on  your  part  ■ 
for  Mr.  Dombey — how  could  it  possibly  exist  between  such 
different  subjects  !  And  I  have  seen,  since,  that  stronger 
feelings  than  indifference  have  been  engendered  in  your 
breast — how  could  that  possibly  be  otherwise,  either,  cir- 
cumstanced as  you  have  been  ?  But  was  it  for  me  to  pre- 
sume to  avow  this  knowledge  to  you  in  so  many  words  ? " 

"Was  it  for  you,   sir,"   she   replied,   "to  feign  that  other ; 
belief,  and  audaciously  to  thrust  it  on  me  day  by  day  ?  " 

"  Madam,  it  was,"  he  eagerly  retorted.  "  If  I  had  done 
less,  if  I  had  done  any  thing  but  that,  I  should  not  be  speak- 
ing to  you  thus  ;  and  I  foresavr — who  could  better  foresee, 
for  who  has  had  greater  experience  of  Mr.  Dombey  than 
myself  ? — that  unless  your  character  should  prove  to  be  as 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  625 

yielding  and  obedient  as   that  of  his  first  submissive  lady, 
which  I  did  not  beHeve — " 

A  haughty  smile  gave  him  reason  to  observe  that  he  might 
repeat  this. 

"  I  say,  which  I  did  not  believe — the  time  was  likely  to 
come,  when  such  an  understanding  as  we  have  now  arrived 
at  would  be  serviceable." 

"  Serviceable  to  whom,   sir  ?  "    she  demanded,  scornfully. 

"  To  you.  I  will  not  add  to  myself,  as  warning  me  to 
refrain  even  from  that  limited  commendation  of  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  in  which  I  can  honestly  indulge,  in  order  that  I  may 
not  have  the  misfortune  of  saying  any  thing  distasteful  to 
one  whose  aversion  and  contempt,"  with  great  expression, 
"  are  so  keen." 

"  It  is  honest  in  you,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  to  confess  to  your 
*  limited  commendation,'  and  to  speak  in  that  tone  of  dis- 
paragement, even  of  him  ;  being  his  chief  counselor  and 
flatterer  !  " 

"  Counselor,  yes,"  said  Carker.  "  Flatterer,  no.  A  Httle 
reservation  I  fear  I  must  confess  to.  But  our  interest  and 
convenience  commonly  oblige  many  of  us  to  make  profes- 
sions that  we  can  not  feel.  We  have  partnerships  of  interest 
and  convenience,  friendships  of  interest  and  convenience, 
dealings  of  interest  and  convenience,  marriages  of  interest 
and  convenience,  every  day." 

She  bit  her  blood-red  lip  ;  but  without  wavering  in  the 
dark,  stern  watch  she  kept  upon  him. 

"  Madam,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  sitting  down  in  a  chair  that 
was  near  her,  with  an  air  of  the  most  profound  and  most 
considerate  respect,  "  why  should  I  hesitate  now,  being 
altogether  devoted  to  your  service,  to  speak  plainly  !  It  was 
natural  that  a  lady,  endowed  as  you  are,  should  think  it 
feasible  to  change  her  husband's  character  in  some  respects, 
and  mold  him  to  a  better  form." 

"  It  was  not  natural  to  me^  sir,"  she  rejoined.  "  I  had 
never  any  expectation  or  intention  of  that  kind." 

The  proud  undaunted  face  showed  him  it  was  resolute 
to  wear  no  mask  he  offered,  but  was  set  upon  a  reckless 
disclosure  of  itself,  indifferent  to  any  aspect  in  which  it 
might  present  itself  to  such  as  he. 

*'  At  least  it  was  natural,"  he  resumed,  "  that  you  should 
deem  it  quite  possible  to  live  w^ith  Mr.  Dombey  as  his  \vife, 
at  once  without  submitting  to  him,  and  without  coming  into 
such  violent  collision  with  him.     But,  madam,  you  did  not 


626  ^       DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

know  Mr.  Dombey  (as  you  have  since  ascertained),  when 
you  thought  that.  You  did  not  know  how  exacting  and 
how  proud  he  is,  or  how  he  is,  if  I  may  say  so,  the  slave 
of  his  own  greatness,  and  goes  yoked  to  his  own  triumphal 
car  like  a  beast  of  burden,  with  no  idea  on  earth  but  that 
it  is  behind  him  and  it  is  to  be  drawn  on,  over  every  thing 
and  through  every  thing." 

His  teeth  gleamed  through  his  malicious  relish  of  this 
conceit,  as  he  went  on  talking  : 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  really  capable  of  no  more  true  consider- 
ation for  you,  madam,  than  for  me.  The  comparison  is  an 
extreme  one  ;  I  intend  it  to  be  so  ;  but  quite  just.  Mr. 
Dombey,  in  the  plenitude  of  his  power,  asked  me — I  had 
it  from  his  own  lips  yesterday  morning — to  be  his  go- 
between  to  you,  because  he  knows  I  am  not  agreeable  to 
you  and  because  he  intends  that  I  shall  be  a  punish- 
ment for  your  contumacy  ;  and  besides  that,  because  he 
really  does  consider  that  I,  his  paid  servant,  am  an  ambas- 
sador whom  it  is  derogatory  to  the  dignity — not  of  the  lady 
to  whom  I  have  the  happiness  of  speaking  ;  she  has  no 
existence  in  his  mind — but  of  his  wife,  a  part  of  himself,  to 
receive.  You  may  imagine  how  regardless  of  me,  how 
obtuse  to  the  possibility  of  my  having  any  individual  senti- 
ment or  opinion  he  is,  when  he  tells  me,  openly,  that  I  am 
so  employed.  You  know  how  perfectly  indifferent  to  your 
feelings  he  is,  when  he  threatens  you  with  such  a  messenger. 
As  you,  of  course,  have  not  forgotten  that  he  did." 

She  watched  him  still  attentively.  But  he  watched  her 
too  ;  and  he  saw  that  this  indication  of  a  knowledge  on  his 
part,  of  something  that  had  passed  between  herself  and  her 
husband,  rankled  and  smarted  in  her  haughty  breast,  like  a 
poisoned  arrow. 

"  I  do  not  recall  all  this  to  widen  the  breach  between 
yourself  and  Mr.  Dombey,  madam — heaven  forbid  !  what 
would  it  profit  me  ? — but  as  an  example  of  the  hopelessness 
of  impressing  Mr.  Dombey  with  a  sense  that  any  body  is  to 
be  considered  when  he  is  in  question.  We  who  are  about 
him  have,  in  our  various  positions,  done  our  part,  I  dare  say, 
to  confirm  him  in  his  way  of  thinking  ;  but  if  we  had  not 
done  so,  others  would — or  they  would  not  have  been  about 
him  ;  and  it  has  always  been  from  the  beginning  the  very 
staple  of  his  life.  Mr.  Dombey  has  had  to  deal,  in  short, 
with  none  but  submissive  and  dependent  persons,  who  have 
bowed  the  knee,  and  bent  the  neck,  before  him.     He  has 


DDMBEY  AND   SON.  627 

never  known  what  it  is  to  have  angry  pride  and  strong 
resentment  opposed  to  him." 

"  But  he  will  know  it  now  !  "  she  seemed  to  say  ;  though 
her  lips  did  not  part,  nor  her  eyes  falter.  He  saw  the  soft 
down  tremble  once  again,  and  he  saw  her  lay  the  plumage 
of  the  beautiful  bird  against  her  bosom  for  a  moment  ;  and 
he  unfolded  one  more  ring  of  the  coil  into  which  he  had 
gathered  himself. 

"  Mr.  Dombey,  though  a  most  honorable  gentleman,"  he 
said,  "  is  so  prone  to  pervert  even  facts  to  his  own  view, 
when  he  is  at  all  opposed,  in  consequence  of  the  warp  in 
his  mind,  that  he — can  I  give  a  better  instance  than  this  ! — 
he  sincerely  believes  (you  will  excuse  the  folly  of  what  I  am 
about  to  say  ;  it  not  being  mine)  that  this  severe  expression 
of  opinion  to  his  present  wife,  on  a  certain  special  occasion 
she  may  remember,  before  the  lamented  death  of  Mrs.  Skew- 
ton,  produced  a  withering  effect,  and  for  a  moment  quite 
subdued  her  !  " 

Edith  laughed.  How  harshly  and  unmusically  need  not 
be  described.     It  is  enough  that  he  was  glad  to  hear  her. 

"  Madam,"  he  resumed,  "  I  have  done  with  this.  Your 
own  opinions  are  so  strong,  and,  I  am  persuaded,  so  unal- 
terable," he  repeated  those  words  slowly  and  with  great 
emphasis,  "  that  I  am  almost  afraid  to  incur  your  displeasure 
anew,  when  I  say  that  in  spite  of  these  defects  and  my  full 
knowledge  of  them,  I  have  become  habituated  to  Mr.  Dom- 
bey, and  esteem  him.  But  when  I  say  so,  it  is  not,  believe 
me,  for  the  mere  sake  of  vaunting  a  feeling  that  is  so  utterly 
at  variance  with  your  own,  and  for  which  you  can  have  no 
sympathy  " — oh  how  distinct  and  plain  and  emphasized  this 
was  ! — "  but  to  give  you  an  assurance  of  the  zeal  with  which, 
in  this  happy  matter,  I  am  yours,  and  the  indignation  with 
which  I  regard  the  part  I  am  required  to  fill  !  " 

She  sat  as  if  she  were  afraid  to  take  her  eyes  from  his  face. 

And  now  to  unwind  the  last  ring  of  the  coil  ! 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Carker,  after  a  pause,  "and  you 
are,  as  you  said,  fatigued.  But  the  second  object  of  this 
interview  I  must  not  forget.  I  must  recommend  you,  I 
must  entreat  you  in  the  most  earnest  manner,  for  sufficient 
reasons  that  I  have,  to  be  cautious  in  your  demonstrations 
of  regard  for  Miss  Dombey." 

"  Cautious  !     What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  To  be  careful  how  you  exhibit  too  much  affection  for 
that  young  lady." 


62$  DOMBEV  AND  SON. 

"  Too  much  affection,  sir  !  "  said  Edith,  knitting  her  broad 
brow,  and  rising.  "  Who  judges  my  affection,  or  measures 
it  out  ?     You  ? " 

"  It  is  not  I  whu  do  so."  He  was,  or  feigned,  to  be  per- 
plexed. 

"  Who  then  ?  " 

"  Can  you  not  guess  who  then  ?  *' 

"  I  do  not  choose  to  guess,"  she  answered. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  after  a  little  hesitation  ;  meantime 
they  had  been,  and  still  were,  regarding  each  other  as 
before  ;  "  I  am  in  a  difficulty  here.  You  have  told  me  that 
you  will  receive  no  message,  and  you  have  forbidden  me  to 
return  to  that  subject ;  but  the  two  subjects  are  so  closely 
intwined,  I  find,  that  unless  you  will  accept  this  vague  cau- 
tion from  one  who  has  now  the  honor  to  possess  your  confi- 
dence, though  the  way  to  it  has  been  through  your  displeas- 
ure, I  must  violate  the  injunction  you  have  laid  upon  me." 

"  You  know  that  you  are  at  liberty  to  do  so,  sir,"  said 
Edith.     "Do  it." 

So  pale,  so  trembling,  so  impassioned  !  He  had  not  mis- 
calculated the  effect  then  ! 

"  His  instructions  were,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "that  I 
should  inform  you  that  your  demeanor  toward  Miss  Dombey 
is  not  agreeable  to  him.  That  it  suggests  comparisons  to 
him  which  are  not  favorable  to  himself.  That  he  desires  it 
may  be  wholly  changed  ;  and  that  if  you  are  in  earnest,  he 
is  confident  it  will  be  ;  for  your  continued  show  of  affection 
will  not  benefit  its  object." 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  threat,"  he  answered,  in  his  voiceless  manner  of 
assent  ;  adding  aloud,  "  but  not  directed  Sigsiinst  you." 

Proud,  erect,  and  dignified,  as  she  stood  confronting  him  ; 
and  looking  through  him,  as  she  did,  with  her  full  bright 
flashing  eye  ;  and  smiling,  as  she  was,  with  scorn  and  bitter- 
ness ;  she  sunk  as  if  the  ground  had  dropped  beneath  her, 
and  in  an  instant  would  have  fallen  on  the  floor,  but  that  he 
caught  her  in  his  arms.  As  instantaneously  she  threw  him 
off,  the  moment  that  he  touched  her,  and,  drawing  back, 
confronted  him  again,  immovable,  with  her  hand  stretched 
out. 

"  Please  to  leave  me.     Say  no  more  to-night." 

"I  feel  the  urgency  of  this,"  said  Mr.  Carker,  "because 
it  is  impossible  to  say  what  unforeseen  consequences  migh^ 
arise,  or  how  soon,  from  your  being  unacquainted  with  hia 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  629 

state  of  mind.  I  understand  Miss  Dombey  is  concerned, 
now,  at  the  dismissal  of  her  old  servant,  which  is  likely  to 
have  been  a  minor  consequence  in  itself.  You  don't  blame 
me  for  requesting  that  Miss  Dombey  might  not  be  present. 
May  I  hope  so  ? " 

"  I  do  not.     Please  to  leave  me,  sir." 

"  I  knew  that  your  regard  for  the  young  lady,  which  is 
very  sincere  and  strong,  I  am  well  persuaded,  would  render 
it  a  great  unhappiness  to  you  ever  to  be  a  prey  to  the  reflec- 
tion that  you  had  injured  her  position  and  ruined  her  future 
hopes,"  said  Carker  hurriedly,  but  eagerly. 

"  No  more  to-night.     Leave  me,  if  you  please." 

"  I  shall  be  here  constantly  in  my  attendance  upon  him, 
and  in  the  transaction  of  business  matters.  You  will  allow 
me  to  see  you  again,  and  to  consult  what  should  be  done, 
and  learn  your  wishes  ? " 

She  motioned  him  toward  the  door. 

*'  I  can  not  even  decide  whether  to  tell  him  I  have  spoken 
to  you  yet ;  or  to  lead  him  to  suppose  that  I  have  deferred 
doing  so,  for  want  of  opportunity,  or  for  any  other  reason. 
It  will  be  necessary  that  you  should  enable  me  to  consult 
with  you  very  soon." 

"  At  any  time  but  now,"  she  answered. 

"  You  will  understand,  when  I  wish  to  see  you,  that  Miss 
Dombey  is  not  to  be  present  ;  and  that  I  seek  an  interview 
as  one  who  has  the  happiness  to  possess  your  confidence, 
and  who  comes  to  render  you  every  assistance  in  his  power, 
and  perhaps,  on  many  occasions,  to  ward  off  evil  from 
her?" 

Looking  at  him  still  with  the  same  apparent  dread  of 
releasing  him  for  a  moment  from  the  influence  of  her  steady 
gaze,  whatever  that  might  be,  she  answered,  "  Yes  !  "  and 
once  more  bade  him  go. 

He  bowed,  as  if  in  compliance  ;  but  turning  back,  when 
he  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  said  : 

"  I  am  forgiven,  and  have  explained  my  fault.  May  I — 
for  Miss  Dombey's  sake,  and  for  my  own — take  your  hand 
before  I  go  ?  " 

She  gave  him  the  gloved  hand  she  had  maimed  last 
night.  He  took  it  in  one  of  his,  and  kissed  it,  and  with- 
drew. And  when  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  waved  the 
hand  with  which  he  had  taken  hers,  and  thrust  it  in  his 
breast. 


©30  DOMBEY  AND   SON. 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

RECOGNIZANT    AND    REFLECTIVE. 

Among  sundry  minor  alterations  in  Mr.  Carker's  life  and 
habits  that  began  to  take  place  at  this  time,  none  was  more 
remarkable  than  the  extraordinary  diligence  with  which  he 
applied  himself  to  business,  and  the  closeness  with  which  he 
investigated  every  detail  that  the  affairs  of  the  house  laid 
open  to  him.  Always  active  and  penetrating  in  such  matters, 
his  lynx-eyed  vigilance  now  increased  twenty-fold.  Not 
only  did  his  weary  watch  keep  pace  with  every  present  point 
that  every  day  presented  to  him  in  some  new  form,  but  in 
the  midst  of  these  engrossing  occupations  he  found  leisure — ■ 
that  is,  he  made  it — to  review  the  past  transactions  of  the 
firm,  and  his  share  in  them,  during  a  long  series  of  years. 
Frequently  when  the  clerks  were  all  gone,  the  offices  dark 
and  empty,  and  all  similar  places  of  business  shut  up,  Mr. 
Carker,  with  the  whole  anatomy  of  the  iron  room  laid  bare 
before  him,  would  explore  the  mysteries  of  books  and  papers, 
with  the  patient  progress  of  a  man  who  was  dissecting  the 
minutest  nerves  and  fibers  of  his  subject.  Perch,  the  mes- 
senger, who  usually  remained  on  these  occasions,  to  enter- 
tain himself  with  the  perusal  of  the  price-current  by  the 
light  of  one  candle,  or  to  doze  over  the  fire  in  the  outer 
office,  at  the  imminent  risk  every  moment  of  diving,  head- 
foremost into  the  coal-box,  could  not  withhold  the  tribute  of 
his  admiration  from  this  zealous  conduct,  although  it  much 
contracted  his  domestic  enjoyments  ;  and  again  and  again 
expatiated  to  Mrs.  Perch  (now  nursing  twins)  on  the  indus- 
try and  acuteness  of  their  managing  gentleman  in  the  city. 

The  same  increased  and  sharp  attention  that  Mr.  Carker 
bestowed  on  the  business  of  the  house,  he  applied  to  his 
own  personal  affairs.  Though  not  a  partner  in  the  concern 
— a  distinction  hitherto  reserved  solely  to  inheritors  of  the 
great  name  of  Dombey — he  was  in  the  receipt  of  some  per- 
centage on  its  dealings  ;  and  participating  in  all  its  facilities 
for  the  employment  of  money  to  advantage,  was  considered, 
by  the  minnows  among  the  tritons  of  the  east,  a  rich  man. 
It  began  to  be  said  among  these  shrewd  observers,  that  Jem 
Carker,  of  Dombey's,  was  looking  about  him  to  see  what  he 
was  worth  ;  and  that  he  was  calling  in  his  money  at  a  good 
time,  like   the  long-headed  fellow  he  was  ;  and  bets  were 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  631 

even  offered  on  the  stock  exchange  that  Jem  was  going  to 
marry  a  rich  widow. 

Yet  these  cares  did  not  in  the  least  interfere  with  Mr. 
Carker's  watching  of  his  chief,  or  with  his  cleanness,  neat- 
ness, sleekness,  or  any  cat-like  quality  he  possessed.  It  was 
not  so  much  that  there  was  a  change  in  him,  in  reference  to 
any  of  his  habits,  as  that  the  whole  man  was  intensified. 
Every  thing  that  had  been  observable  in  him  before  was 
observable  now,  but  with  a  greater  amount  of  concentration. 
He  did  each  single  thing  as  if  he  did  nothing  else — a  pretty 
certain  indication  in  a  man  of  that  range  of  ability  and  pur- 
pose, that  he  is  doing  something  which  sharpens  and  keeps 
alive  his  keenest  powers. 

The  only  decided  alteration  in  him  was,  that  as  he  rode  to 
and  fro  along  the  streets,  he  would  fall  into  deep  fits  of  mus- 
ing, like  that  in  which  he  had  come  away  from  Mr.  Dombey's 
house  on  the  morning  of  that  gentleman's  disaster.  At  such 
times,  he  would  keep  clear  of  the  obstacles  in  his  way, 
mechanically  ;  and  would  appear  to  see  and  hear  nothing 
until  arrival  at  his  destination,  or  some  sudden  chance  or 
effort  aroused  him. 

Walking  his  white-legged  horse  thus  to  the  counting-house 
of  Dombey  and  Son  one  day,  he  was  as  unconscious  of  the 
observation  of  two  pairs  of  women's  eyes,  as  of  the  fascinated 
orbs  of  Rob  the  Grinder,  who,  in  waiting  a  street's  length 
from  the  appointed  place,  as  a  demonstration  of  punctuality, 
vainly  touched  and  retouched  his  hat  to  attract  attention, 
and  trotted  along  on  foot  by  his  master's  side,  prepared  to 
hold  his  stirrup  when  he  should  alight. 

"  See  where  he  goes  !  "  cried  one  of  these  two  women,  an 
old  creature,  who  stretched  out  her  shriveled  arm  to  point 
him  out  to  her  companion,  a  young  woman,  who  stood  close 
beside  her,  withdrawn  like  herself  into  a  gateway. 

Mrs.  Brown's  daughter  looked  out,  at  this  bidding  on  the 
part  of  Mrs.  Brown  ;  and  there  were  wrath  and  vengeance 
in  her  face. 

"  I  never  thought  to  look  at  him  again,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice  ;  "but  it's  well  I  should,  perhaps.     I  see.     I  see  !  " 

"  Not  changed  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  look  of  eager 
malice. 

''He  changed  !  "  returned  the  other.  "  What  for  ?  What 
has  he  suffered  ?  There  is  change  enough  for  twenty  in  me. 
Isn't  that  enough  ?  " 

"  See  where  he  goes !  "  muttered  the  old  woman,  watching 


6s2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

her  daughter  with  her  red  eyes  ;  "  so  easy  and  so  trim, 
a-horseback,  while  we  are  in  the  mud — " 

"  And  of  it,"  said  her  daughter,  impatiently.  "  We  are 
mud  underneath  his  horse's  feet.     What  should  we  be  ?" 

In  the  intentness  with  which  she  looked  after  him  again, 
she  made  a  hasty  gesture  with  her  hand  when  the  old 
woman  began  to  reply,  as  if  her  view  could  be  obstructed 
by  mere  sound.  Her  mother,  watching  her  and  not  him, 
remained  silent ;  until  her  kindling  glance  subsided,  and  she 
drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  in  the  relief  of  his  being  gone. 

"  Deary  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  then.  "  Alice  !  Hand- 
some gal  !  Ally  !  "  She  gently  shook  her  sleeve  to  arouse 
her  attention.  "  Will  you  let  him  go  like  that,  when  you  can 
wring  money  from  him  ?  Why,  it's  a  wickedness,  my  daugh- 
ter." 

"  Haven't  I  told  you  that  I  will  not  have  money  from 
him  ? "  she  returned.  "  And  don't  you  yet  believe  me  ? 
Did  I  take  his  sister's  money  ?  Would  I  touch  a  penny,  if  I 
knew  it,  that  had  gone  through  his  white  hands — unless  it 
was,  indeed,  that  I  could  poison  it,  and  send  it  back  to  him  ? 
Peace,  mother,  and  come  away." 

"  And  him  so  rich  ?  "  murmured  the  old  woman.  "  And 
us  so  poor  !  " 

"  Poor  in  not  being  able  to  pay  him  any  of  the  harm  we 
owe  him,"  returned  her  daughter.  "  Let  him  give  me  that 
sort  of  riches,  and  I'll  take  them  from  him,  and  use  them. 
Come  away.  It's  no  good  looking  at  his  horse.  Come  away, 
mother  !  " 

But  the  old  woman,  for  whom  the  spectacle  of  Rob  the 
Grinder,  returning  dov/n  the  street,  leading  the  riderless 
horse,  appeared  to  have  some  extraneous  interest  that  it  did 
not  possess  in  itself,  surveyed  that  young  man  with  the 
utmost  earnestness  ;  and  seeming  to  have  whatever  doubts 
she  entertained  resolved  as  he  drew  nearer,  glanced  at  her 
daughter  with  brightened  eyes  and  with  her  finger  on  her 
lip,  and  emerging  from  the  gateway  at  the  moment  of  his 
passing,  touched  him  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Why,  where's  my  sprightly  Rob  been,  all  this  time  !  "  she 
said,  as  he  turned  round. 

The  sprightly  Rob,  whose  sprightliness  was  very  much 
diminished  by  che  salutation,  looked  exceedingly  dismayed, 
and  said,  with  the  water  rising  in  his  eyes  : 

"  Oh  !  why  can't  you  leave  a  poor  cove  alone,  Misses 
JBrown,  when  he's  getting  an  honest  livelihood  and  conduct- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  633 

ing  himself  respectable  ?  What  do  you  come  and  deprive  a 
cove  of  his  character  for,  by  talking  to  him  in  the  streets, 
when  he's  taking  his  master's  horse  to  a  honest  stable — a 
horsd  you'd  go  and  sell  for  cats'  and  dogs'  meat  if  you  had 
your  way  !  Why,  I  thought,"  said  the  grinder,  producing 
his  concluding  remark  as  if  it  were  the  climax  of  all  his  in- 
juries, "  that  you  was  dead  long  ago  !  " 

"  This  is  the  way,"  cried  the  old  woman,  appealing  to  her 
daughter,  "  that  he  talks  to  me,  who  knew  him  weeks  and 
months  together,  my  deary,  and  have  stood  his  friend  many 
and  many  a  time  among  the  pigeon-fancying  tramps  and 
bird-catchers." 

"  Let  the  birds  be,  will  you,  Misses  Brown  !  "  retorted 
Rob,  in  a  tone  of  the  acutest  anguish.  "  I  think  a  cove  had 
better  have  to  do  with  lions  than  them  little  creatures,  for 
they're  always  flying  back  in  your  face  when  you  least 
expect  it.  Well,  how  d'ye  do,  and  what  do  you  want  ? " 
These  polite  inquiries  the  grinder  uttered,  as  it  were  under 
protest,  and  with  great  exasperation  and  vindictiveness. 

"  Hark  how  he  speaks  to  an  old  friend,  my  deary  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Brown,  again  appealing  to  her  daughter.  "  But  there's 
some  of  his  old  friends  not  so  patient  as  me.  If  I  was  to 
tell  some  that  he  knows,  and  has  sported  and  cheated  with, 
where  to  find  him — " 

*'  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown  !  "  interrupted 
the  miserable  grinder,  glancing  quickly  round,  as  though  he 
expected  to  see  his  master's  teeth  shining  at  his  elbow. 
"  What  do  you  take  a  pleasure  in  ruining  a  cove  for  ?  At 
your  time  of  life  too  !  when  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  a 
variety  of  things  !  " 

"  W^hat  a  gallant  horse  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  patting  the 
animal's  neck. 

"  Let  him  alone,  will  you.  Misses  Brown  ?  "  cried  Rob, 
pushing  away  her  hand.  "  You're  enough  to  drive  a  peni- 
tent cove  mad  !  " 

"  Why,  what  hurt  do  I  do  him,  child  ?  "  returned  the  old 
woman. 

"  Hurt  ?  "  said  Rob.  "  He's  got  a  master  that  would  find 
it  out  if  he  was  touched  with  a  straw."  And  he  blew  upon 
the  place  where  the  old  woman's  hand  had  rested  for  a 
moment,  and  smoothed  it  gently  with  his  finger,  as  if  he 
seriously  believed  what  he  said. 

The  old  woman  looking  back  to  mumble  and  mouth  at  her 
daughter,   who   followed    kept    <z\q^^.    to   Rob's    heels    a§ 


034  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

he  walked  on  with  the  bridle  in  his  hand,  and  pursued  the 
conversation. 

"  A  good  place,  Rob,  eh?  "  she  said.  "  You're  in  luck,  my 
child." 

"  Oh  don't  talk  about  luck,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
wretched  grinder,  facing  round  and  stopping.  "  If  you'd 
never  come,  or  if  you'd  go  away,  then  indeed  a  cove  might 
be  considered  tolerably  lucky.  Can't  you  go  along,  Misses 
Brown,  and  not  foller  me  !  "  blubbered  Rob,  with  sudden 
defiance.  "  If  the  young  woman's  a  friend  of  yours,  why 
don't  she  take  you  away,  instead  of  letting  you  make  your- 
self so  disgraceful  !  " 

"  What  !  "  croaked  the  old  woman,  putting  her  face  close 
to  his,  with  a  malevolent  grin  upon  it  that  puckered  up  the 
loose  skin  down  in  her  very  throat.  "  Do  you  deny  your 
old  chum  !  Have  you  lurked  to  my  house  fifty  times,  and 
slept  sound  in  a  corner  when  you  had  no  other  bed  but  the 
paving-stones,  and  do  you  talk  to  i7ie  like  this!  Have  I 
bought  and  sold  with  you,  and  helped  you  in  my  way  of 
business,  school-boy,  sneak,  and  what  not,  and  do  you  tell 
me  to  go  along  ?  Could  I  raise  a  crowd  of  old  company 
about  you  to-morrow  morning,  that  would  follow  you  to  ruin 
like  copies  of  your  own  shadow,  and  do  you  turn  on  me 
with  your  bold  looks  !     I'll  go.     Come,  Alice." 

"Stop,  Misses  Brown!  "cried  the  distracted  grinder. 
"  What  are  you  doing  of  ?  Don't  put  yourself  in  a  passion  ! 
Don't  let  her  go,  if  you  please.  I  haven't  meant  any  offense. 
I  said  '  How  d'ye  do,'  at  first,  didn't  I  ?  But  you  wouldn't 
answer.  How  do  you  do  ?  Besides,"  said  Rob,  piteously, 
"  look  here  !  How  can  a  cove  stand  talking  in  the  street  with 
his  master's  prad  a-wanting  to  be  took  to  be  rubbed  down, 
and  his  master  up  to  every  individgle  thing  that  hap- 
pens !  " 

The  old  woman  made  a  show  of  being  partially 
appeased,  but  shook  her  head,  and  mouthed  and  muttered 
still. 

"  Come  along  to  the  stables,  and  have  a  glass  of  some- 
thing that's  good  for  you,  Misses  Brown,  can't  you  ? "  said 
Rob,  "  instead  of  going  on,  like  that,  which  is  no  good  to 
you,  nor  any  body  else  ?  Come  along  with  her,  will  you  be 
so  kind?"  said  Rob.  *'  I'm  sure  I'm  delighted  to  see  her,  if 
it  wasn't  for  the  horse  !  " 

With  this  apology,  Rob  turned  away,  a  rueful  picture  of 
despair,  and  walked  his  charge  down  a  by-street.     The  old 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  635 

woman,  mouthing  at  her  daughter,  followed  close  upon  him. 
The  daughter  followed. 

Turning  into  a  silent  little  square  or  court-yard  that  had  a 
great  church  tower  rising  above  it,  and  a  packer's  ware- 
liouse,  and  a  bottle-maker's  warehouse,  for  its  places  of  bus- 
iness, Rob  the  Grinder  delivered  the  white-legged  horse  to 
the  hostler  of  a  quaint  stable  at  the  corner  ;  and  inviting 
Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  to  seat  themselves  upon  a 
stone  bench  at  the  gate  of  that  establishment,  soon  re-ap- 
peared from  a  neighboring  public  house  with  a  pewter  meas- 
ure and  a  glass. 

'*  Here's  master — Mr.  Carker,  child  !  "  said  the  old 
woman,  slowly,  as  her  sentiment  before  drinking.  ""  Lord 
bless  him  !  " 

"  Why,  I  didn't  tell  you  who  he  was  !  "  observed  Rob, 
with  staring  eyes. 

"  We  know  him  by  sight,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  whose 
working  mouth  and  nodding  head  stopped  for  the  moment, 
in  the  fixedness  of  her  attention.  "  We  saw  him  pass  this 
morning  afore  he  got  off  his  horse  ;  when  you  were  ready 
to  take  it." 

"Ay,  ay  ?  "  returned  Rob,  appearing  to  wish  that  his  readi- 
ness had  carried  him  to  any  other  place — "  What's  the  mat- 
ter with  her  ?     Vv'on't  she  drink  ?  " 

This  inquiry  had  reference  to  Alice,  who,  folded  in  her 
cloak,  sat  a  little  apart  profoundly  inattentive  to  his  offer  of 
the  replenished  glass. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "  Don't  mind  her,"  she 
said  ;  "  she's  a  strange  creetur,  if  you  know'd  her,  Rob. 
But  Mr.Carker— " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Rob,  glancing  cautiously  up  at  the 
packer's,  and  at  the  bottle-maker's,  as  if  from  any  one  of  the 
tiers  of  warehouses  Mr.  Carker  might  be  looking  down. 
"Softly." 

"  Why,  he  ain't  here  !  "  cried  ISIrs.  Brown. 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  muttered  Rob,  whose  glance  even 
wandered  to  the  church  tower,  as  if  he  might  be  there,  with  a 
supernatural  power  of  hearing. 

"  Good  master  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Brown. 

Rob  nodded;  and  added,  in  a  low  voice,  "  precious  sharp." 

"  Lives  out  of  town,  don't  he,  lovey  ? "  said  the  old 
woman. 

"  When  he's  at  home,"  returned  Rob  ;  "  but  we  don't  live 
at  home  just  now." 


636  ^      DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  Where  then  ?  "  asked  the  woman, 

"  Lodgings  ;  up  near  Mr.  Dombey's,"  returned  Rob. 

The  younger  woman  fixed  her  eyes  so  searchingly  upon 
him,  and  so  suddenly,  that  Rob  was  quite  confounded,  and 
offered  the  glass  again,  but  with  no  more  effect  upon  her 
than  before. 

"  Mr.  Dombey — you  and  I  used  to  talk  about  him  some- 
times, you  know,"  said  Rob  to  Mrs.  Brown.  "  You  used  to 
get  me  to  talk  about  him." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Dombey,  he's  had  a  fall  from  his  horse,"  saii 
Rob,  unwillingly  ;  "  and  my  master  has  to  be  up  there  more 
than  usual,  either  with  him,  or  Mrs.  Dombey,  or  some  of 
'em  ;  and  so  we've  come  to  town." 

"  Are  they  good  friends,  lovey  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

*•  Who  ?  "  retorted  Rob. 

"  He  and  she  ?  " 

**  What,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  ? "  said  Rob.  "  How 
should  /  know  !  " 

*'  Not  them — master  and  Mrs.  Dombey,  chick,"  replied 
the  old  woman  coaxingly. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rob,  looking  around  him  again.  '*  I 
suppose  so.  How  curious  you  are.  Misses  Brown  !  Least 
said,  soonest  mended." 

"  Why  there's  no  harm  in  it !  "  exclaimed  the  old  woman, 
with  a  laugh,  and  a  clap  of  her  hands.  "  Sprightly  Rob  has 
grown  tame  since  he  has  been  well  off  !  There's  no  harm 
in  it." 

"  No,  there's  no  harm  in  it  I  know,"  returned  Rob,  with 
the  same  distrustful  glance  at  the  packer's  and  bottle- 
maker's,  and  the  church  ;  "  but  blabbing,  if  it's  only  about 
the  number  of  buttons  on  my  master's  coat,  won't  do  with 
him.  A  cove  had  better  drown  himself.  He  says  so.  I 
shouldn't  have  so  much  as  told  you  what  his  name  was,  if 
you  hadn't  known  it.     Talk  about  somebody  else." 

As  Rob  took  another  cautious  survey  of  the  yard,  the  old 
woman  made  a  secret  motion  to  her  daughter.  It  was 
momentary,  but  the  daughter,  with  a  slight  look  of  intelli- 
gence, withdrew  her  eyies  from  the  boy's  face,  and  sat  folded 
in  her  cloak  as  before. 

"  Rob,  lovey  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  beckoning  him  to  the 
other  end  of  the  bench.  "  You  were  always  a  pet  and  a 
favorite  of  mine.  Now,  weren't  you  ? .  Don't  you  know  you 
were  ?  ** 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  637 

"  Yes,  Misses  Brown,"  replied  the  grinder,  with  a  very 
bad  grace. 

"  And  you  could  leave  me  ? "  said  the  old  woman,  flinging 
her  arms  about  his  neck.  "  You  could  go  away,  and  grow 
almost  out  of  knowledge,  and  never  come  to  tell  your  poor 
old  friend  how  fortunate  you  were,  proud  lad  !     Oho,  oho!  " 

"  Oh  here's  a  dreadful  go  for  a  cove  that's  got  a  master 
wide  awake  in  the  neighborhood  !  "  exclaimed  the  wretched 
grinder.     "  To  be  howled  over  like  this  here  !  " 

"  Won't  you  come  and  see  me,  Robby  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown. 
"  Oho,  won't  you  ever  come  and  see  me  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  tell  you  !     Yes,  I  will  !  "  returned  the  grinder. 

"  That's  my  own  Rob  !  That's  my  lovey  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Brown,  drying  the  tears  upon  her  shriveled  face,  and  giving 
a  tender  squeeze.     "  At  the  old  place,  Rob  } " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  grinder. 

"  Soon,  Robby  dear  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown  ;  "  and  often  ? " 

"  Yes.  Yes.  Yes,"  repUed  Rob.  "  I  will  indeed,  upon 
my  soul  and  body." 

"And  then,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  her  arms  uplifted 
toward  the  sky,  and  her  head  thrown  back  and  shaking,  "  if 
he's  true  to  his  word,  I'll  never  come  a-near  him,  though  I 
know  where  he  is,  and  never  breathe  a  syllable  about  him  ! 
Never  !  " 

This  ejaculation  seemed  a  drop  of  comfort  to  the  miserable 
grinder,  who  shook  Mrs.  Brown  by  the  hand  upon  it,  and 
implored  her  with  tears  in  his  eyes  to  leave  a  cove  and  not 
destroy  his  prospects.  Mrs.  Brown  with  another  fond 
embrace,  assented;  but  in  the  act  of  following  her  daughter, 
turned  back,  with  her  finger  stealthily  raised,  and  asked  in  a 
hoarse  whisper  for  some  money. 

"  A  shilling,  dear  !  "  she  said,  with  her  eager,  avaricious 
face,  "  or  sixpence  !  For  old  acquaintance'  sake.  I'm  so 
poor.  And  my  handsome  gal  " — looking  over  her  shoulder 
— "  she's  my  gal,  Rob — half  starves  me." 

But  as  the  reluctant  grinder  put  it  in  her  hand,  her 
daughter,  coming  quietly  back,  caught  the  hand  in  hers,  and 
twisted  out  the  coin. 

"  What,"  she  said,  "  mother  !  always  money  !  money  from 
the  first,  and  to  the  last.  Do  you  mind  so  little  what  I  said 
but  now  ?     Here.     Take  it  !  " 

The  old  woman  uttered  a  moan  as  the  money  was  restored, 
but  without  in  any  other  way  opposing  its  restoration,  hob- 
bled at  her  daughter's  side  out  of  the  yard,  and  along  the 


638  DOiMBEY   AND   SON. 

by-street  upon  which  it  opened.  The  astonished  and  dis^* 
mayed  Rob  staring  after  them,  saw  that  they  stopped,  and 
fell  to  earnest  conversation  very  soon;  and  more  than  once 
observed  a  darkly  threatening  action  of  the  younger  woman's 
hand  (obviously  having  reference  to  some  one  of  whom  they 
spoke),  and  crooning,  feeble  imitation  of  it  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Brown,  that  made  him  earnestly  hope  he  might  not  be 
the  subject  of  their  discourse. 

With  the  present  consolation  that  they  were  gone,  and 
with  the  prospective  comfort  that  Mrs.  Brown  could  not  live 
forever,  and  was  not  likely  to  live  long  to  trouble  him,  the 
grinder,  not  otherwise  regretting  his  misdeeds  than  as  they 
were  attended  with  such  disagreeable  incidental  conse- 
quences, composed  his  ruffled  features  to  a  more  serene 
expression  by  thinking  of  the  admirable  manner  in  which  he 
had  disposed  of  Captain  Cuttle  (a  reflection  that  seldom 
failed  to  put  him  in  a  flow  of  spirits),  and  went  to  the  Dom- 
bey  counting-house  to  receive  his  master's  orders. 

There  his  master,  so  subtle  and  vigilant  of  eye,  that  Rob 
quaked  before  him,  more  than  half  expecting  to  be  taxed 
with  Mrs.  Brown,  gave  him  the  usual  morning's  box  of 
papers  for  Mr.  Dombey,  and  a  note  for  Mrs.  Dombey  ; 
merely  nodding  his  head  as  an  enjoinder  to  be  careful,  and 
to  use  dispatch — a  mysterious  admonition,  fraught  in  the 
grinder's  imagination  with  dismal  warnings  and  threats  ;  and 
more  powerful  with  him  than  any  words. 

Alone  again,  in  his  own  room,  Mr.  Carker  applied  himself 
to  work,  and  worked  all  day.  He  saw  many  visitors  ;  over- 
looked a  number  of  documents  ;  went  in  and  out,  to  and  from, 
sundry  places  of  mercantile  resort ;  and  indulged  in  no  more 
abstraction  until  the  day's  business  was  done.  But,  when 
the  usual  clearance  of  papers  from  his  table  was  made  at 
last,  he  fell  into  his  thoughtful  mood  once  more. 

He  was  standing  in  his  accustomed  place  and  attitude, 
with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  ground,  when  his 
brother  entered  to  bring  back  some  letters  that  had  been 
taken  out  in  the  course  of  the  day.  He  put  them  quietly 
on  the  table,  and  was  going  immediately,  when  Mr.  Carker, 
the  manager,  whose  eyes  had  rested  on  him,  on  his  entrance, 
as  if  they  had  all  this  time  had  him  for  the  subject  of  their 
contemplation,  instead  of  the  office-floor,  said  : 

"  Well,  John  Carker,  and  what  brings  j'<?//  here  ?  " 

His  brother  pointed  to  the  letters,  and  was  again  with- 
drawing. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  639 

"  I  wonder,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  you  can  come  and 
go,  without  inquiring  how  our  master  is." 

"  We  had  word  this  morning  in  the  counting-house  that 
Mr.  Dombey  was  doing  well,"  replied  his  brother. 

^*  You  are  such  a  meek  fellow,"  said  the  manager,  with  a 
smile,  "  but  you  have  grown  so  in  the  course  of  years — that 
if  any  harm  came  to  him  you'd  be  miserable,  I  dare  swear 
now." 

"  I  should  be  truly  sorry,  James,"  returned  the  other. 

"  He  would  be  sorry  !  "  said  the  manager,  pointing  at  him, 
as  if  there  were  some  other  person  present  to  whom  he  was 
appealing.  "  He  would  be  truly  sorry  !  This  brother  of 
mine  !  This  junior  of  the  place,  this  slighted  piece  of 
lumber,  pushed  aside  with  his  face  to  the  wall,  like  a  rotten 
picture,  and  left  so  for  heaven  knows  how  many  years  ;  /les 
all  gratitude  and  respect,  and  devotion  too,  he  would  have 
me  believe  !  " 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  nothing,  James,"  returned  the 
other.  •'  Be  as  just  to  me  as  you  would  to  any  other  man 
below  you.     You  ask  a  question,  and  I  answer  it." 

"And  have  you  nothing,  spaniel,"  said  the  manager,  with 
unusual  irascibility,  "  to  complain  of  in  him  ?  No  proud 
treatment  to  resent,  no  insolence,  no  foolery  of  state,  no  ex- 
action of  any  sort  !  What  the  devil  are  you,  man  or  mouse  ?"' 

"  It  would  be  strange  if  any  two  persons  could  be  together 
for  so  many  years,  especially  as  superior  and  inferior,  with- 
out each  having  something  to  complain  of  in  the  other — as 
he  thought,  at  all  events,"  replied  John  Carker.  "  But  apart 
from  my  history  here — " 

"His  history  here!  "  exclaimed  the  manager.  "Why, 
there  it  is.  The  very  fact  that  makes  him  an  extreme  case 
puts  him  out  of  the  whole  chapter  !     Well  ?  " 

"Apart  from  that,  which,  as  you  hint,  gives  me  a  reason 
to  be  thankful  that  I  alone  (happily  for  all  the  rest)  pos- 
sess, surely  there  is  no  one  in  the  house  who  would  not  say 
and  feel  at  least  as  much.  You  do  not  think  that  any  body 
here  would  be  indifferent  to  a  mischance  or  misfortune  hap- 
pening to  the  head  of  the  house,  or  any  thing  than  truly 
sorry  for  it  ?  " 

"  You  have  good  reason  to  be  bound  to  him  too  !  "  said 
the  manager,  contemptuously.  "  Why,  don't  you  believe 
that  you  are  kept  here,  as  a  cheap  example,  and  a  famous 
instance  of  the  clemency  of  Dombey  and  Son,  redounding 
to  the  credit  of  the  illustrious  house  ?  " 


640  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  No,"  replied  his  brother,  mildly,  '*  I  have  long  believed 
that  I  am  kept  here  for  more  kind  and  disinterested  rea- 
sons." 

'*  But  you  were  going,"  said  the  manager,  with  the  snarl 
of  a  tiger-cat,  '^  to  recite  some  Christian  precept,  I  ob- 
served." 

"Nay,  James,"  returned  the  other,  "though  the  tie  of 
brotherhood  between  us  has  been  long  broken  and  thrown 
away — " 

"  Who  broke  it,  good  sir  ?"  said  the  manager. 

"  I,  by  my  misconduct.     I  do  not  charge  it  upon  you." 

The  manager  replied,  with  that  mute  action  of  his  brist- 
ling mouth,  '^  Oh,  you  don't  charge  it  upon  me  !"  and  bade 
him  go  on. 

"  I  say,  though  there  is  not  that  tie  between  us,  do  not, 
I  entreat,  assail  me  with  unnecessary  taunts,  or  misinterpret 
what  I  say,  or  would  say.  I  was  only  going  to  suggest  to 
you  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  is  only  you, 
who  have  been  selected  here,  above  all  others,  for  advance- 
ment, confidence,  and  distinction  (selected,  in  the  beginning, 
I  know,  for  your  great  ability  and  trustfulness),  and  vv^ho 
communicate  m  )re  freely  with  Mr.  Dombey  than  any  one, 
and  stand,  it  may  be  said,  on  equal  terms  with  him,  and 
have  been  favored  and  enriched  by  him — that  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  it  is  only  you  who  are 
tender  of  his  welfare  and  reputation.  There  is  no  one  in  the 
house,  from  yourself  down  to  the  lowest,  I  sincerely  be- 
lieve, who  does  not  participate  in  that  feeling." 

"  You  lie  !"  said  the  manager,  red  with  sudden  anger. 
"  You're  a  hypocrite,  John  Carker,  and  you  lie  !" 

"James!"  cried  the  other,  flushing  in  his  turn.  "What 
do  you  mean  by  these  insulting  words  ?  Why  do  you  basely 
use  them  to  me,  unprovoked  ?" 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  manager,  "  that  your  hypocrisy  and 
meekness — that  all  the  hypocrisy  and  meekness  of  this 
place — is  not  worth  t/za^  to  me,"  snapping  his  thumb  and 
finger,  "  and  that  I  see  through  it  as  if  it  were  air  !  There 
is  not  a  man  employed  here,  standing  between  myself  and 
the  lowest  in  place  (of  whom  you  are  very  considerate,  and 
with  reason,  for  he  is  not  far  off),  who  wouldn't  be  glad  at 
heart  to  see  his  master  humbled  ;  who  does  not  hate  him, 
secretly  ;  who  does  not  wish  him  evil  rather  than  good  ; 
and  who  would  not  turn  upon  him,  if  he  had  the  power  and 
boldness.     The  nearer  to  his  favor,  the  nearer  to  his  inso- 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  641 

lence  ;  the  closer  to  him,  the  further  from  him.  That's  the 
creed  here  !" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  brother,  whose  roused  feelings 
had  soon  yielded  to  surprise,  *'  who  may  have  abused  your 
ear  with  such  representations  ;  or  why  you  have  chosen  to 
try  me,  rather  than  another.  But  that  you  have  been  trying 
me,  and  tampering  with  me,  I  am  now  sure.  You  have  a 
different  manner  and  a  different  aspect  from  any  that  I  ever 
saw  in  you.  I  will  only  say  to  you,  once  more,  you  are 
deceived." 

"I  know  I  am,"  said    the  manager.     "I  have   told  you 

so." 

"  Not  by  me,"  returned  his  brother.  "  By  your  mformant, 
if  you  have  one.  If  not,  by  your  own  thoughts  and  suspi- 
cions." 

*'  I  have  no  suspicions,"  said  the  manager.  "  Mine  are 
certainties.  You  pusillanimous,  abject,  cringing  dogs  !  All 
making  the  same  show,  all  canting  the  same  story,  all  whin- 
ing the  same  professions,  all  harboring  the  same  transparent 
secret." 

His  brother  withdrew,  without  saying  more,  and  shut  the 
door  as  he  concluded.  Mr.  Carker  the  manager  drew  a  chair 
close  before  the  fire,  and  fell  to  beating  the  coals  softly  with 
the  poker. 

*' The  faint-hearted,  fawning  knaves  !"  he  muttered,  with 
his  two  shining  rows  of  teeth  laid  bare.  "  There's  not  one 
among  them  who  wouldn't  feign  to  be  so  shocked  and  out- 
raged— !  Bah  !  There's  not  one  among  them,  but  if  he  had 
at  once  the  power,  and  the  wit  and  daring  to  use  it,  would 
scatter  Dombey's  pride  and  lay  it  low,  as  ruthlessly  as  I  rake 
out  these  ashes,"  « 

As  he  broke  them  up  and  strewed  them  in  the  grate,^  he 
looked  on  with  a  thoughtful  smile  at  what  he  was  doing. 
"Without  the  same  queen  beckoner  too  !"  he  added  pres- 
ently; "  and  there  is  pride  there,  not  to  be  forgotten— witness 
our  own  acquaintance  !"  With  that  he  fell  into  a  deeper 
reverie,  and  sat  pondering  over  the  blackening  grate,  until  he 
rose  up  like  a  man  who  had  been  absorbed  in  a  book,  and 
looking  round  him  took  his  hat  and  gloves,  went  to  where  his 
horse  was  waiting,  mounted,  and  rode  away  through  the 
lighted  streets,  for  it  was  evening. 

He  rode  near  Mr.  Dombey's  house  ;  and  falling  into  a  walk 
as  he  approached  it,  looked  up  at  the  windows.  The  window 
where  he  had  once  seen  Florence  sitting  with  her  dog  attracted 


642  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

his  attention  first,  though  there  was  no  light  in  it ;  but  he 
smiled  as  he  carried  his  eyes  up  the  tall  front  of  the  house, 
and  seemed  to  leave  that  object  superciliously  behind. 

"  Time  was,"  he  said,  "  when  it  was  well  to  watch  even 
your  rising  little  star,  and  know  in  what  quarter  there  were 
clouds  to  shadow  you  if  needful.  But  a  planet  has  arisen, 
and  you  are  lost  in  its  light." 

He  turned  the  white-legged  horse  round  the  street  corner, 
and  sought  one  shining  window  from  among  those  at  the 
back  of  the  house.  Associated  with  it  was  a  certain  stately 
presence,  a  gloved  hand,  the  remembrance  how  the  feathers 
of  a  beautiful  bird's  wing  had  been  showered  down  upon  the 
floor,  and  how  the  light  white  down  upon  a  robe  had  stirred 
and  rustled,  as  in  the  rising  of  a  distant  storm.  These  were 
the  things  he  carried  with  him  as  he  turned  away  again,  and 
rode  through  the  darkening  and  deserted  parks  at  a  quick 
rate. 

In  fatal  truth,  these  were  associated  with  a  woman,  a  proud 
woman,  who  hated  him,  but  who,  by  slow  and  sure  degrees,  had 
been  led  on  by  his  craft,  and  her  pride  and  resentment,  to 
endure  his  company,  and  little  by  little  to  receive  him  as  one 
who  had  the  privilege  to  talk  of  her  own  defiant  disregard  of 
her  own  husband,  and  her  abandonment  of  high  considera- 
tion for  herself.  They  were  associated  with  a  woman  who 
hated  him  deeply,  and  who  knew  him,  and  who  mistrusted  him 
because  she  knew  him,  and  because  he  knew  her  ;  but  who 
fed  her  fierce  resentment  by  suffering  him  to  draw  nearer 
and  yet  nearer  to  her  every  day,  in  spite  of  the  hate  she 
cherished  for  him.  In  spite  of  it !  For  that  very  reason  ; 
since  in  its  depths,too  far  down  for  her  threatening  eye  to 
pierce,  though  she  could  see  into  them  dimly,  lay  the  dark 
retaliation,  whose  faintest  shadow  seen  once  and  shuddered 
at,  and  never  seen  again,  would  have  been  sufficient  stain 
upon  her  soul. 

Did  the  phantom  of  such  a  woman  flit  about  him  on  his 
ride  ;  true  to  the  reality,  and  obvious  to  him  ? 

Yes.  He  saw  her  in  his  mind  exactly  as  she  was.  She 
bore  him  company  with  her  pride,  resentment,  hatred,  all  as 
plain  to  him  as  her  beauty  ;  with  nothing  plainer  to  him  than 
her  hatred  of  him.  He  saw  her  sometimes  haughty  and 
repellent  at  his  side,  and  sometimes  down  among  his  horse's 
feet,  fallen  and  in  the  dust.  But  he  always  saw  her  as  she 
was,  without  disguise,  and  watched  her  on  the  dangerous 
way  that  she  was  going. 


DOMBKY  AND  SON.  643 

And  when  his  ride  was  over,  and  he  was  newly  dressed, 
and  came  into  the  light  of  her  bright  room  with  his  bent 
head,  soft  voice,  and  soothing  smile,  he  saw  her  yet  as 
plainly.  He  even  suspected  the  mystery  of  the  gloved 
hand,  and  held  it  all  the  longer  in  his  ovrn  for  that  suspicion. 
Upon  the  dangerous  way  that  she  was  going,  he  was  still  ; 
and  not  a  foot-print  did  she  mark  upon  it,  but  he  set  his 
own  there,  straight. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

THE       THUNDER»BOLT. 

The  barrier  between  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  wife  was  not 
weakened  by  time.  Ill-assorted  couple,  unhappy  in  them- 
selves and  in  each  other,  bound  together  by  no  tie  but  the 
manacle  that  joined  their  fettered  hands,  and  straining  that 
so  harshly,  in  their  shrinking  asunder,  that  it  wore  and 
chafed  to  the  bone.  Time,  consoler  of  affliction  and  softener 
of  anger,  could  do  nothing  to  help  them.  Their  pride, 
however  different  in  kind  and  object,  was  equal  in  degree  ; 
and,  in  their  flinty  opposition,  struck  out  fire  between  them 
which  might  smoulder  or  might  blaze,  as  circumstances  were, 
but  burned  up  every  thing  within  their  mutual  reach,  and 
made  their  marriage  way  a  road  of  ashes. 

Let  us  be  just  to  him  :  in  the  monstrous  delusion  of  his 
life,  swelling  with  every  grain  of  sand  that  shifted  in  its 
glass,  he  urged  her  on,  he  little  thought  to  what,  or  consid- 
ered how;  but  still  his  feeling  toward  her,  such  as  it  was, 
remained  as  at  first.  She  had  the  grand  demerit  of  unac- 
countably putting  herself  in  opposition  to  the  recognition  of 
his  vast  importance,  and  to  the  acknowledgment  of  her 
complete  submission  to  it,  and  so  far  it  was  necessary  to 
correct  and  reduce  her;  but  otherwise  he  still  considered 
her,  in  his  cold  way,  a  lady  capable  of  doing  honor,  if  she 
would,  to  his  choice  and  name,  and  of  reflecting  credit  on  his 
proprietorship. 

Now  she,  with  all  her  might  of  passionate  and  proud  resent- 
ment, bent  her  dark  glance  from  day  to  day,  and  hour  to 
hour — from  that  night  in  her  own  chamber,  when  she  had  sat 
gazing  at  the  shadows  on  the  wall,  to  the  deeper  night  fast 
coming — upon  one  figure  directing  a  crowd  of  humiliations 


644  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

and  exasperations  against  her  ;  and  that  figure  still  her  hus- 
band's. 

Was  Mr.  Dombey's  master-vice,  that  ruled  him  so  inexor- 
ably, an  unnatural  characteristic  ?  It  might  be  worth  while, 
sometimes,  to  inquire  what  nature  is,  and  how  men  work  to 
change  her,  and  whether,  in  the  enforced  distortions  so  pro- 
duced, it  is  not  natural  to  be  unnatural.  Coop  any  son  or 
daughter,  of  our  mighty  mother  within  narrow  range,  and 
bind  the  prisoner  to  one  idea,  and  foster  it  by  servile  wor- 
ship of  it  on  the  part  of  the  few  timid  or  designing  people 
standing  round,  and  what  is  nature  to  the  willing  captive 
who  has  never  risen  up  upon  the  wings  of  a  free  mind — 
drooping  and  useless  soon — to  see  her  in  her  comprehensive 
truth  ! 

Alas  !  are  there  so  few  things  in  the  world  about  us  most 
unnatural,  and  yet  most  natural  in  being  so  !  Hear  the  mag- 
istrate or  judge  admonish  the  unnatural  outcast  of  society  ; 
unnatural  in  brutal  habits,  unnatural  in  want  of  decency, 
unnatural  in  losing  and  confounding  all  distinctions  between 
good  and  evil ;  unnatural  in  ignorance,  in  vice,  in  reckless- 
ness, in  contumacy,  in  mind,  in  looks,  in  every  thing.  But 
follow  the  good  clergyman  or  doctor,  who,  with  his  life 
imperiled  at  every  breath  he  draws,  goes  down  into  their 
dens,  lying  within  the  echoes  of  our  carriage-wheels  and 
daily  tread  upon  the  pavement  stones.  Look  round  upon 
the  world  of  odious  sights — millions  of  immortal  creatures 
have  no  other  world  on  earth — at  the  lightest  mention  of 
which  humanity  revolts,  and  dainty  delicacy  living  in  the 
next  street,  stops  her  ears,  and  lisps,  "  I  don't  believe  it  !  " 
Breathe  the  polluted  air,  foul  with  every  impurity  that  is 
poisonous  to  health  and  life  ;  and  have  every  sense  conferred 
upon  our  race  for  its  delight  and  happiness,  offended,  sickened, 
and  disgusted,  and  made  a  channel  by  which  misery  and 
death  alone  can  enter.  Vainly  attempt  to  think  of  any  simple 
plant,  or  flower,  or  wholesome  weed,  that,  set  in  this  fetid 
bed,  could  have  its  natural  growth,  or  put  its  little  leaves  off 
to  the  sun  as  God  designed  it.  And  then,  calling  up  some 
ghastly  child,  with  stunted  form  and  wicked  face,  hold 
forth  on  its  unnatural  sinfulness,  and  lament  its  being  so 
early  far  away  from  heaven — but  think  a  little  of  its  having 
been  conceived,  and  born  and  bred,  in  hell  ! 

Those  who  study  the  physical  sciences,  and  bring  them  to 
bear  upon  the  health  of  man,  tell  us  that  if  the  noxious  par- 
ticles that  rise  from  vitiated  air  were  palpable  to   the  sight, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  645 

<ve  should  see  them  lowering  in  a  dense  black  cloud  above 
such  haunts,  and  rolling  slowly  on  to  corrupt  the  better  por- 
tions of  a  town.  But  if  the  moral  pestilence  that  rises  with 
them,  and  in  the  eternal  laws  of  outraged  nature,  is  insepar- 
able from  them,  could  be  made  discernible  too,  how  terrible 
the  revelation  !  Then  should  we  see  depravity,  impiety, 
drunkenness,  theft,  murder,  and  along  train  of  nameless  sins 
against  the  natural  affections  and  repulsions  of  mankind, 
overhanging  the  devoted  spots,  and  creeping  on,  to  blight 
the  innocent  and  spread  contagion  among  the  pure.  Then 
should  we  see  how  the  same  poisoned  fountains  that  flow 
into  our  hospitals  and  lazar-houses,  inundate  the  jails,  and 
make  the  convict-ships  swim  deep,  and  roll  across  the  seas, 
and  overrun  vast  continents  with  crime.  Then  should  we 
stand  appalled  to  know,  that  where  we  generate  disease  to 
strike  our  children  down  and  entail  itself  on  unborn  gener- 
ations, there  also  we  breed,  by  the  same  certain  process, 
infancy  that  knows  no  innocence,  youth  without  modesty  or 
shame,  maturity  that  is  niature  in  nothing  but  in  suffering 
and  guilt,  blasted  old  age  that  is  a  scandal  on  the  form  we 
bear.  Unnatural  humanity  !  When  we  shall  gather  grapes 
from  thorns,  and  figs  from  thistles  ;  when  fields  of  grain 
shall  spring  up  from  the  offal  in  the  by-ways  of  our  wicked 
cities,  and  roses  bloom  in  the  fat  church-yards  that  they 
cherish  ;  then  v.-e  may  look  for  natural  humanity  and  find  it 
growing  from  such  seed. 

Oh  for  a  good  spirit  who  would  take  the  house-tops  off, 
v.'ith  a  more  potent  and  benignant  hand  than  the  lame  demon 
in  the  tale,  and  show  a  Christian  people  what  dark  shapes 
issue  from  amidst  their  homes,  to  swell  the  retinue  of  the 
destroying  angel  as  he  moves  forth  among  them  !  For  only 
one  night's  view  of  the  pale  phantoms  rising  from  the  scenes 
of  our  too  long  neglect  ;  and  from  the  thick  and  sullen 
air  where  vice  and  fever  propagate  together,  raining  the 
tremendous  and  social  retributions  which  are  ever  pouring 
down,  and  ever  coming  thicker  !  Bright  and  blest  the 
morning  that  should  rise  on  such  a  night  ;  for  men,  delayed 
no  more  by  stumbling-blocks  of  their  own  making,  which 
are  but  specks  of  dust  upon  the  path  between  them  and 
eternity,  would  then  apply  themselves,  like  creatures  of  one 
common  origin,  owing  one  duty  to  the  father  of  one 
family,  and  tending  to  one  common  end  to  make  the  world 
a  better  place  ! 

Not  the  less  bright   and  blessed  would   that  day  be  for 


646  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

rousing  some  who  never  have  looked  out  upon  the  world  of 
human  life  around  them,  to  a  knowledge  of  their  own  rela- 
tion to  it,  and  for  making  them  acquainted  with  a  perver- 
sion of  nature  in  their  own  contracted  sympathies  and  esti- 
mates ;  as  great,  and  yet  as  natural  in  its  develop- 
ment, when  once  begun,  as  the  lowest  degradation 
known. 

But  no  such  day  had  ever  dawned  on  Mr.  Dombey  or  his 
wife  ;  and  the  course  of  each  was  taken. 

Through  six  months  that  ensued  upon  his  accident,  they 
held  the  same  relations  one  toward  the  other.  A  marble  rock 
could  not  have  stood  more  obdurately  in  his  way  than  she  ; 
and  no  chilled  spring,  lying  uncheered  by  any  ray  of  light 
in  the  depths  of  a  deep  cave,  could  be  more  sullen  or  more 
cold  than  he. 

The  hope  that  had  fluttered  within  her  when  the  promise 
of  her  new  home  dawned  was  quite  gone  from  the  heart  of 
Florence  now.  That  home  was  nearly  two  years  old  ;  and 
even  the  patient  trust  that  was  in  her  could  not  survive  the 
daily  blight  of  such  experience.  If  she  had  any  lingering 
fancy  in  the  nature  of  hope  left,  that  Edith  and  her  father 
might  be  happier  together  in  some  distant  time,  she  had 
none,  now,  that  her  father  would  ever  love  her.  The  little 
interval  in  which  she  had  imagined  that  she  sav/  some  small 
relenting  in  him,  was  forgotten  in  the  long  remembrance  of 
his  coldness  since  and  before,  or  only  remembered  as  a  sor- 
rowful delusion. 

Florence  loved  him  still,  but  by  degrees  had  come  to  love 
him  rather  as  some  dear  one  who  had  been,  or  who  might 
have  been,  than  as  the  hard  reality  before  her  eyes.  Some- 
thing of  the  softened  sadness  with  which  she  loved  the 
memory  of  little  Paul,  or  of  her  mother,  seemed  to  enter  now 
into  her  thoughts  of  him,  and  to  make  them,  as  it  were  a 
dear  remembrance.  Whether  it  was  that  he  was  dead  to  her, 
and  that  partly  for  this  reason,  partly  for  his  share  in  those 
old  objects  of  her  affection  and  partly  for  the  long  associa- 
tion of  him  with  hopes  that  were  withered  and  tenderness  he 
had  frozen,  she  could  not  have  told;  but  the  father  whom  she 
loved  began  to  be  a  vague  and  dreamy  idea  to  her  ;  hardly 
more  sustantially  connected  with  her  real  life,  than  the 
image  she  would  sometimes  conjure  up,  of  her  dear  brother 
yet  alive,  and  growing  to  be  a  man,  who  would  protect  and 
cherish  her. 

The  change,  if  it  may  be  called  one,  had  stolen  on  her 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  C47 

like  the  change  from  childhood  to  womanhood,  and  had 
come  with  it.  Florence  was  almost  seventeen,  when,  in  her 
lonely  musings,  she  was  conscious  of  these  thoughts. 

She  was  often  alone  now,  for  the  old  association  between 
her  and  her  mamma  was  greatly  changed.  At  the  time  of  her 
father's  accident,  and  when  he  was  lying  in  his  room  down 
stairs,  Florence  had  first  observed  that  Edith  avoided  her. 
Wounded  and  shocked,  and  yet  unable  to  reconcile  this  with 
her  affection  when  they  did  meet,  she  sought  her  in  her  own 
room  at  night,  once  more. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Florence,  stealing  softly  to  her  side, 
"  have  I  offended  you  ?  " 

Edith  answered  "  No." 

"  I  must  have  done  something,"  said  Florence.  "  Tell 
me  what  it  is.  You  have  changed  your  manner  to  me,  dear 
mamma.  I  can  not  say  how  instantly  I  feel  the  least 
change,  for  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart." 

*'  As  I  do  you,"  said  Edith.  "  Ah,  Florence,  believe  me 
never  more  than  now  !  " 

"Why  do  you  go  away  from  me  so  often,  and  keep 
away  ?  "  asked  Florence.  "  And  why  do  you  sometimes 
look  so  strangely  on  me,  dear  mamma  ?  You  do  so,  do  you 
not  ? " 

Edith  signified  assent  with  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Why  ?  "  returned  Florence,  imploringly.  "  Tell  me 
why,  that  I  may  know  how  to  please  you  better  ;  and  tell 
me  this  shall  not  be  so  anv  more." 

"  My  Florence,"  answered  Edith,  taking  the  hand  that 
embraced  her  neck,  and  looking  into  the  eyes  that  looked 
into  hers  so  lovingly,  as  Florence  kneeled  upon  the  ground 
before  her  ;  "why  it  is,  I  can  not  tell  you.  It  is  neither  for 
me  to  say,  nor  you  to  hear  ;  but  that  it  is,  and  that  it  must 
be,  I  know.     Should  I  do  it  if  I  did  not  ?  " 

"  Are  7cie  to  be  estranged,  mamma } "  asked  Florence, 
gazing  at  her  like  one  frightened. 

Edith's  silent  lips  formed  "  Yes." 

Florence  looked  at  her  with  increasing  fear  and  wonder, 
until  she  could  see  her  no  more  through  the  blinding  tears 
that  ran  down  her  face. 

"  Florence  !  my  life  !  "  said  Edith,  hurriedly,  "  listen  to 
me.  I  can  not  bear  to  see  this  grief.  Be  calmer.  You  see 
that  I  am  composed,  and  is  it  nothing  to  me  ?  " 

She  resumed  her  steady  voice  and  manner  as  she  said  the 
latter  words,  and  added  presently  : 


648  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Not  wholly  estranged.  Partially  ;  and  only  that  in 
appearance,  Florence,  for  in  my  own  breast  I  am  still  the 
same  to  you,  and  ever  will  be.  But  what  I  do  is  not  done 
for  myself." 

"  Is  it  for  me,  mamma  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

**  It  is  enough,"  said  Edith,  after  a  pause,  ''to  know  what 
it  is  ;  why,  matters  little.  Dear  Florence,  it  is  better — it  is 
necessary — it  must  be — that  our  association  should  be  less 
frequent.  The  confidence  there  has  been  between  us  must 
be  broken  off." 

"  When  ?  "  cried  Florence.     *'  Oh,  mamma,  when  ?  " 

"  Now,"  said  Edith. 

"  For  all  time  to  come  ? "  asked  Florence. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  answered  Edith.  "  I  do  not  know 
that.  Nor  will  I  say  that  companionship  between  us  is,  at 
the  best,  an  ill-assorted  and  unholy  union,  of  which  I  might 
have  known  no  good  could  come.  My  way  here  has  been 
through  paths  that  you  will  never  tread,  and  my  way  hence- 
forth may  lie — God  knows — I  do  not  see  it — " 

Her  voice  died  away  into  silence  ;  and  she  sat  looking  at 
Florence,  and  almost  shrinking  from  her,  with  the  same 
strange  dread  and  wild  avoidance  that  Florence  had  noticed 
once  before.  The  same  dark  pride  and  rage  succeeded, 
sweeping  over  her  form  and  features  like  an  angry  chord 
across  the  strings  of  a  wild  harp.  But  no  softness  or 
humility  ensued  on  that.  She  did  not  lay  her  head  down 
now  and  weep,  and  say  that  she  had  no  hope  but  in  Florence. 
She  held  it  up  as  if  she  were  a  beautiful  Medusa,  looking  on 
him,  face  to  face,  to  strike  him  dead.  Yes,  and  she  would 
have  done  it,  if  she  had  had  the  charm. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Florence,  anxiously,  '*  there  is  a  change 
in  you,  in  more  than  what  you  say  to  me,  which  alarms  me. 
Let  me  stay  with  you  a  little." 

"  No,"  said  Edith,  "  no,  dearest.  I  am  best  left  alone 
now,  and  I  do  best  to  keep  apart  from  you,  of  all  else.  Ask 
me  no  questions,  but  believe  that  what  1  am  when  I  seem 
fxkle  or  capricious  to  you,  I  am  not  of  my  own  will,  or  for 
myself.  Believe,  though  we  are  stranger  to  each  other  than 
we  have  been,  that  I  am  unchanged  to  you  within.  Forgive 
me  for  having  ever  darkened  your  dark  home — I  am  a 
shadow  on  it,  I  know  well — and  let  us  never  speak  of  this 
again." 

"  Mamma,"  sobbed  Florence,  "  we  are  not  to  part  ?  " 

"  We  do  this  that  we  may  not  part,"  said  Edith.     "Ask 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  649 

no  more.  Go,  Florence  !  My  love  and  my  remorse  go 
with  you  !  " 

She  embraced  her  and  dismissed  her  ;  and  as  Florence 
passed  out  of  her  room,  Edith  looked  on  the  retiring  figure, 
as  if  her  good  angel  went  out  in  that  form,  and  left  her  to 
the  haughty  and  indignant  passions  that  now  claimed  her 
for  their  own,  and  set  their  seal  upon  her  brow. 

From  that  hour,  Florence  and  she  were,  as  they  had  been, 
no  more.  For  days  together  they  would  seldom  meet, 
except  at  table,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey  was  present.  Then 
Edith,  imperious,  inflexible,  and  silent,  never  looked  at 
her.  Whenever  Mr.  Carker  was  of  the  party,  as  he  often 
was,  during  the  progress  of  Mr.  Dombey's  recovery,  and 
aftervv'ard,  Edith  held  herself  more  removed  from  her,  and 
vv^as  more  distant  toward  her,  than  at  other  times.  Yet  she 
and  Florence  never  encountered,  when  there  was  no  one  by, 
but  she  would  embrace  her  as  affectionately  as  of  old, 
though  not  with  the  same  relenting  of  lier  proud  aspect  ; 
and  often,  when  she  had  been  out  late,  she  v.ould  steal  up 
to  Florence's  room,  as  she  had  been  used  to  do.  in  the  dark, 
and  v.'hisper  *'  Good-night  "  on  her  pillow.  When  uncon- 
scious, in  her  slumber,  of  such  visits,  Florence  would  some- 
times awake,  as  from  a  dream  of  those  v,^ords,  softly  spoken, 
and  would  seem  to  feel    the   touch   of  lips  upon   her  face. 

But  less  and  less  often  as  the  months  went  on. 

And  now  the  void  in  Florence's  own  heart  began  again, 
indeed,  to  make  a  solitude  around  her.  As  the  image  of 
the  father  whom  she  loved  had  insensibly  become  a  m.ere 
abstraction,  so  Edith,  follovring  the  fate  of  all  the  rest  about 
whom  her  affections  had  intwined  themselves,  was  fleeting, 
fading,  growing  paler  in  tiie  distance,  every  day.  Little  by  lit- 
tle, she  receded  from  Florence,  like  the  retiring  ghost  of  what 
sne  had  been  ;  little  by  little,  the  chasm  between  them 
widened  and  seemed  deeper  ;  little  by  little,  all  the  power  of 
earnestness  and  tenderness  she  had  shone  was  frozen  up  in 
the  bold,  angry  hardihood  with  which  she  stood,  upon  the 
brink  of  a  deep  precipice  unseen  by  Florence,  daring  to 
look  down.  There  was  but  one  consideration  to  set  against 
the  heavy  loss  of  Edith,  and  though  it  was  slight  comfort 
to  her  burdened  heart,  she  tried  to  think  it  some 
relief. 

No  longer  divided  between  her  affection  and  duty  to  the 
two,  Florence  could  love  both  and  do  no  injustice  to  either. 
As  shadows  of  her  fond   imagination,   she  could  give  them 


G50  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

equal  place  in  her  own  bosom,   and  wrong  them  with   no 
doubts. 

So  she  tried  to  do.  At  times,  and  often  too,  wondering 
speculations  on  the  cause  of  this  change  in  Edith  would 
obtrude  themselves  upon  her  mind  and  friiihten  her  ;  but 
in  the  calm  of  its  abandonment  once  more  to  silent  grief 
and  loneliness,  it  was  not  a  curious  mind.  Florence  had 
only  to  remember  that  her  star  of  promise  was  clouded  in 
the  general  gloom  that  hung  upon  the  house,  and  to  weep 
and  be  resigned. 

Thus  living,  in  a  dream  wherein  the  overflowing  love  of 
her  young  heart  expended  itself  on  airy  forms,  and  in  a  real 
world  where  she  had  experienced  Httle  but  the  rolling  back 
of  that  strong  tide  upon  itself,  Florence  grew  to  be  seven- 
teen. Timid  and  retiring  as  her  solitary  life  had  made  her, 
it  had  not  imbittered  her  sweet  temper,  nor  her  earnest 
nature.  A  child  in  innocent  simplicity  ;  a  woman  in  her 
modest  self-reliance,  and  her  deep  intensity  of  feeling  ;  both 
child  and  woman  seemed  at  once  expressed  in  her  fair  face 
and  fragile  delicacy  of  shape,  and  gracefully  to  mingle  there  ; 
— as  if  the  spring  should  be  unwilling  to  depart  when  sum- 
mer came,  and  sought  to  blend  the  earlier  beauties  of  the 
flowers  with  their  bloom.  But  in  her  thrilling  voice,  in  her 
calm  eyes,  sometimes  in  a  strange  ethereal  light  that  seemed 
to  rest  upon  her  head,  and  always  in  a  certain  pensive  air 
upon  her  beauty,  there  was  an  expression  such  as  had  been 
seen  in  the  dead  boy  ;  and  the  council  in  the  servants'  hall 
whispered  so  among  themselves,  and  shook  their  heads,  and 
ate  and  drank  the  more,  in  a  closer  bond  of  good-fellow- 
ship. 

This  observant  body  had  plenty  to  say  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dombey,  and  of  Mr.  Carker,  who  appeared  to  be  a  mediator, 
between  them,  and  who  came  and  went  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  make  peace,  but  never  could.  They  all  deplored  the 
uncomfortable  state  of  affairs,  and  all  agreed  that  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin  (whose  unpopularity  was  not  to  be  surpassed)  had  some 
hand  in  it ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  it  was  agreeable  to  have  sc 
good  a  subject  for  a  rallying-point,  and  they  made  a  great 
deal  of  it,  and  enjoyed  themselves  very  much. 

The  general  visitors  who  came  to  the  house,  and  those 
among  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dombey  visited,  thought  it  a 
pretty  equal  match,  as  to  haughtiness,  at  all  events,  and 
thought  nothing  more  about  it.  The  young  lady  with  the 
back    did  not  appear  for   some  time  after  Mrs.    Skewton'g 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  651 

death  ;  observing  to  some  particular  friends,  with  her  usual 
engaging  little  scream,  that  she  couldn't  separate  the  family 
from  a  notion  of  tombstones,  and  horrors  of  that  sort ;  but 
when  she  did  come,  she  saw  nothing  wrong,  except  Mr. 
Dombey's  wearing  a  bunch  of  gold  seals  to  his  watch,  which 
shocked  her  very  much,  as  an  exploded  superstition.  This 
youthful  fascinator  considered  a  daughter-in-law  objection- 
able in  principle  ;  otherwise,  she  had  nothing  to  say  against 
Florence,  but  that  she  sadly  wanted  "  style  " — which  might 
mean  back,  perhaps.  Many,  who  onl)'-  came  to  the  house  on 
state  occasions,  hardly  knew  who  Florence  was,  and  said, 
going  home,  "  Indeed,  was  that  Miss  Dombey  in  the  corner  ? 
Very  pretty,  but  a  little  delicate  and  thoughtful  in  appear- 
ance." 

None  the  less  so,  certainly,  for  her  life  of  the  last  six 
months,  Florence  took  her  seat  at  the  dinner  table,  on  the  day 
before  the  second  anniversary  of  her  father's  marriage  to 
Edith  (Mrs.  Skewton  had  been  lying  stricken  with  paralysis 
w^hen  the  first  came  round),  with  an  uneasiness  amounting  to 
dread.  She  had  no  other  warrant  for  it  than  the  occasion, 
the  expression  of  her  father's  face,  in  the  hasty  glance  she 
caught  of  it,  and  the  presence  of  Mr.  Carker,  which,  always 
unpleasant  to  her,  was  more  so  on  this  day  than  she  had  ever 
felt  it  before. 

Edith  was  richly  dressed,  for  she  and  Mr.  Dombey  were 
engaged  in  the  evening  to  some  large  assembly,  and  the  din- 
ner-hour that  day  was  late.  She  did  not  appear  until  they 
were  seated  at  table,  when  Mr.  Carker  rose  and  led  her  to  a 
chair.  Beautiful  and  lustrous  as  she  was,  there  was  that  in 
her  face  and  air  which  seemed  to  separate  her  hopelessly  from 
Florence,  and  from  every  one,  for  evermore,  and  yet,  for  an 
instant,  Florence  saw  a  beam  of  kindness  in  her  eyes,  when 
they  were  turned  on  her,  that  made  the  distance  to  which 
she  had  withdrawn  herself  a  greater  cause  of  sorrow  and 
regret  than  ever. 

There  was  very  little  said  at  dinner.  Florence  heard  her 
father  speak  to  ^Ir.  Carker  sometimes  on  business  matters, 
and  heard  him  softly  reply,  but  she  paid  little  attention  to 
what  they  said,  and  only  wished  the  dinner  at  an  end.  When 
the  dessert  was  placed  upon  the  table,  and  they  were  left  alone 
with  no  servant  in  attendance,  Mr.  Dombey,  who  had  been 
several  times  clearing  his  throat  in  a  manner  that  argued  no 
good,  said  : 

"  Mrs.    Dombey,    you    know,    I   suppose,    that   I    have 


6,52  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

instructed  the  housekeeper  that  there  will  be  some  company 
to  dinner  here  to-morrow." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  answered. 

"  Not  at  a  large  party,"  pursued  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an 
indifferent  assumption  of  not  having  heard  her  ;  "  merely 
some  twelve  or  fourteen.  My  sister,  Major  Bagstock  and 
some  others  whom  you  know  but  slightly." 

"  I  do  not  dine  at  home,"  she  repeated. 

"  However  doubtful  reason  I  may  have,  Mrs.  Dombey," 
said  Mr.  Dombey,  still  going  majestically  on,  as  if  she  had 
not  spoken,  "  to  hold  the  occasion  in  very  pleasant  remem- 
brance just  now,  there  are  appearances  in  these  things  which 
must  be  maintained  before  the  world.  If  you  have  no 
I'espect  for  yourself,  Mrs.  Dombey — " 

"  I  have  none,"  she  said. 

"  Madam,"  cried  Mr.  Dombey,  striking  his  hand  upon  the 
table,  "  hear  me,  if  you  please.  I  say  if  you  have  no  respect 
for  yourself — " 

"  And  /  say  I  have  none,"  she  answered. 

He  looked  at  her  ;  but  the  face  she  showed  him  in  return 
would  not  have  changed  if  death  itself  had  looked. 

"  Carker,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  turning  more  quietly  to  that 
gentleman,  "  as  you  have  been  my  medium  of  communica- 
tion with  Mrs.  Dombey  on  former  occasions,  and  as  I  choose 
to  preserve  the  decencies  of  life,  so  far  as  I  am  individually 
concerned,  I  will  trouble  you  to  have  the  goodness  to  inform 
Mrs.  Dombey  that  if  she  has  no  respect  for  herself,  I  have 
some  respect  for  myseU,  and  therefore  must  insist  on  my 
arrangements  for  to-morrow." 

"  Tell  your  sovereign  master,  sir,"  said  Edith,  "  that  I  will 
take  leave  to  speak  to  him  on  this  subject  by-and-by,  and 
that  I  will  speak  to  him  alone." 

"  Mr.  Carker,  madam,"  said  her  husband,  "being  in  pos- 
session of  the  reason  which  obliges  me  to  refuse  you  that 
privilege,  shall  be  absolved  from  the  delivery  of  any  such 
message."  He  saw  her  eyes  move  while  he  spoke,  and  fol- 
lowed them  with  his  own. 

"  Your  daughter  is  present,  sir,"  said  Edith. 

'*  My  daughter  will  remain  present,"  said  Mr.  Dom- 
bey. 

Florence,  who  had  risen,  sat  down  again,  hiding  her  face 
in  her  hands,  and  trembling. 

"  My  daughter,  madam  " — began  Mr.  Dombey. 

But   Edith  stopped  him,  in  a  voice  which,   although  not 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  653 

raised  in  the  least,  was  so  clear,  emphatic,  and  distinct,  that 
it  might  have  been  heard  in  a  whirlwind. 

"  I  tell  you  1  will  speak  to  you  alone,"  she  said.  *'  If 
you  are  not  mad,  heed  what  I  say." 

"  I  have  authority  to  speak  to  you,  madam,"  returned  her 
husband,  "  when  and  where  I  please  ;  and  it  is  my  pleasure 
to  speak  here  and  now." 

She  rose  up  as  if  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  sat  down  again, 
and  looking  at  him  with  all  outward  composure,  said,  in 
the  same  voice  : 

"  You  shall  !  " 

"  I  must  tell  you,  first  that  there  is  a  threatening  appear- 
ance in  your  manner,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  "which 
does  not  become  you." 

She  laughed.  The  shaken  diamonds  in  her  hair  started 
and  trembled.  There  are  fables  of  precious  stones  that 
would  turn  pale,  their  vrearer  being  in  danger.  Had  these 
been  such,  their  imprisoned  rays  of  light  would  have  taken 
flight  that  moment,  and  they  would  have  been  as  dull  as 
lead. 

Carker  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"As  to  my  daughter,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resum- 
ing the  thread  of  his  discourse,  "it  is  by  no  means  incon- 
sistent with  her  duty  to  me  that  she  should  know  what  con- 
duct to  avoid.  At  present  you  are  a  very  strong  example  to 
her  of  this  kind,  and  I  hope  she  may  profit  by  it." 

"  I  would  not  stop  you  now,"  returned  his  wife,  immovable 
in  eye,  and  voice,  and  attitude  ;  "  I  would  not  rise  and  go 
away,  and  save  you  the  utterance  of  one  word,  if  the  room 
were  burning." 

Mr.  Dombey  moved  his  head,  as  if  in  a  sarcastic 
acknowledgment  of  the  attention,  and  resumed.  But  not 
with  so  much  self-possession  as  before  ;  for  Edith's  quick 
uneasiness  in  reference  to  Florence,  and  Edith's  indifference 
to  him  and  his  censure,  chafed  and  galled  him  like  a  stiffen- 
ing wound. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,"  said  he,  "  it  may  not  be  inconsistent 
with  my  daughter's  improvement  to  know  how  very  much 
to  be  lamented,  and  how  necessary  to  be  corrected,  a  stub- 
born disposition  is,  especially  when  it  is  indulged  in — 
unthankfuUy  indulged  in,  I  will  add — after  the  gratification 
of  ambition  and  interest.  Both  of  which,  I  believe,  had 
some  share  in  inducing  you  to  occupy  your  present  station 
at  this  board." 


654  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  No  !  I  would  not  rise  and  go  away,  and  save  you  the 
utterance  of  one  word,"  she  repeated,  exactly  as  before,  "if 
the  room  were  burning." 

"  It  may  be  natural  enough,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  pursued, 
"  that  you  should  be  uneasy  in  the  presence  of  any  auditors 
of  these  disagreeable  truths  ;  though  why — "  he  could  not 
hide  his  real  feelings  here,  or  keep  his  eyes  from  glancing 
gloomily  at  Florence — "  why  any  one  can  give  them  greater 
force  and  point  than  myself,  whom  they  so  nearly  concern, 
I  do  not  pretend  to  understand.  It  may  be  natural  enough 
that  you  should  object  to  hear,  in  any  body's  presence,  that 
there  is  a  rebellious  principle  within  you  which  you  can 
not  curb,  too  soon  ;  which  you  must  curb,  Mrs.  Dombey ; 
and  which,  I  regret  to  say ,  I  remember  to  have  seen 
manifested — with  some  doubt  and  displeasure,  on  more 
than  one  occasion  before  our  marriage — toward  your 
deceased  mother.  But  you  have  the  remedy  in  your 
own  hands.  I  by  no  means  forgot,  when  I  began,  that 
my  daughter  was  present,  Mrs.  Dombey.  I  beg  you  will 
not  forget,  to-morrow,  that  there  are  several  persons  present  ; 
and  that,  with  some  regard  to  appearances,  you  will  receive 
your  company  in  a  becoming  manner." 

"  So  it  is  not  enough,"  said  Edith,  "  that  you  know  what 
has  passed  between  yourself  and  me  ;  it  is  not  enough  that 
you  can  look  here,"  pointing  at  Carker,  who  still  listened, 
with  his  eyes  cast  down,  and  be  reminded  of  the  affronts 
you  have  put  upon  me  ;  it  is  not  enough  that  you  can  look 
here,"  pointing  to  Florence  with  a  hand  that  slightly  trem- 
bled for  the  first  and  only  time,  "  and  think  of  what  you 
have  done,  and  of  the  ingenious  agony,  daily,  hourly,  con- 
stant, you  have  made  me  feel  in  doing  it;  it  is  not  enough 
that  this  day,  of  all  others  in  the  year,  is  memorable  to  me 
for  a  struggle  (well  deserved,  but  not  conceivable  by  such  as 
you)  in  which  I  wish  I  had  died  !  You  add  to  all  this,  do 
you,  the  last  crowing  meanness  of  making  /ler  a  witness  of 
the  depth  to  which  I  have  fallen  ;  when  you  know  that  you 
have  made  me  sacrifice  to  her  peace  the  only  gentle  feeling 
and  interest  of  my  life,  when  you  know  that  for  her  sake  I 
would  now,  if  I  could — but  I  can  not^  my  soul  recoils  from 
you  too  much — submit  myself  wholly  to  your  will  and  be 
the  meekest  vassal  that  you  have  !  " 

This  was  not  the  way  to  minister  to  Mr.  Dombey's  great- 
ness. The  old  feeling  was  roused  by  what  she  said,  into  a 
stronger  and  fiercer  existence  than  it  had  ever  had.     Again, 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  655 

his  neglected  child,  at  this  rough  passage  of  his  life,  put 
forth  by  even  this  rebellious  woman,  as  powerful  where  he 
was  powerless,  and  every  thing  where  he  was  nothing  ! 

He  turned  on  Florence,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had  spoken, 
and  bade  her  leave  the  room.  Florence,  with  her  covered 
face,  obeyed,  trembling  and  weeping  as  she  went. 

"  I  understand,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  angry 
flush  of  triumph,  "  the  spirit  of  opposition  that  turned  your 
affections  in  that  channel,  but  they  have  been  met,  Mrs. 
Dombey  ;  they  have  been  met,  and  turned  back  !  " 

"  The  worse  for  you  !  "  she  answered,  with  her  voice  and 
manner  still  unchanged.  "  Ay  !  "  for  he  turned  sharply 
when  she  said  so,  "  what  is  the  worse  for  me,  is  twenty  mil- 
lion times  the  worse  for  you.  Heed  that,  if  you  heed  noth- 
ing else." 

The  arch  of  diamonds  spanning  her  dark  hair  flashed 
and  glittered  like  a  starry  bridge.  There  was  no  warning  in 
them,  or  they  would  have  turned  as  dull  and  dim  as  tarnished 
honor.  Carker  still  sat  and  listened,  with  his  eyes  cast  down. 

"  Mrs.  Dombey,  said  Mr.  Dombey,  resuming  as  much  as 
he  could  of  his  arrogant  composure,  "  you  will  not  con- 
ciliate me,  or  turn  me  from  any  purpose,  by  this  course  of 
conduct." 

"  It  is  the  only  true,  although  it  is  a  faint  expression  of 
what  is  within  me,"  she  replied.  "  But  if  I  thought  it  w^uld 
conciliate  you  I  would  repress  it,  if  it  were  repressibl'*  by 
any  human  effort.     I  will  do  nothing  that  you  ask." 

''I  am_  not  accustomed  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he 
observed  ;  "  I  direct." 

^'  I  will  hold  no  place  in  your  house  to-morrow,  o'  on 
any  recurrence  of  to-morrow.  I  will  be  exhibited  to  no  one 
as  the  refractory  slave  you  purchased,  such  a  time.  U  I 
kept  my  marriage  day,  I  would  keep  it  as  a  day  of  shame. 
Self-respect  !  appearances  before  the  world  !  what  are  these 
to  me  ?  You  have  done  all  you  can  to  make  them  nothing 
to  me,  and  they  are  nothing." 

"  Carker,"  said  ]Mr.  Dombey,  speaking  with  knitted  brows 
and  after  a  moment's  consideration,  *'  Mrs.  Dombey  is  so  for- 
getful of  herself  and  me  in  all  this,  and  places  me  in  a  posi- 
tion so  unsuited  to  my  character,  that  I  must  bring  this  state 
of  matters  to  a  close." 

"  Release  me,  then,"  said  Edith,  immovable  in  voice,  in 
look,  and  bearing,  as  she  had  been  throughout,  "  from  the 
chain  by  which  I  am  bound.     Let  me  go." 


656  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Madam  ? "  exclaimed  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Loose  me.     Set  me  free  !  " 

"  Madam?"  he  repeated,  "Mrs.  Dombey?" 

"  Tell  him,"  said  Edith,  addressing  her  proud  face  to 
Carker,  "  that  I  wish  for  a  separation  between  us.  That 
there  had  better  be  one.  That  I  recommend  it  to  him.  Tell 
him  it  may  take  place  on  his  own  terms — his  wealth  is  noth- 
ing to  me — but  that  it  can  not  be  too  soon." 

"Good  heaven,  Mrs.  Dombey  !"  said  her  husband,  with 
supreme  amazement,  "  do  you  imagine  it  possible  that  I 
could  ever  listen  to  such  a  proposition  ?  Do  you  know  who 
I  am,  madam  ?  Do  you  know  what  I  represent  ?  Did  you 
ever  hear  of  Dombey  and  Son  ?  People  to  say  that  Mr. 
Dombey — Mr.  Dombey  ! — was  separated  from  his  wife  ! 
Com.mon  people  to  talk  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  his  domestic 
affairs  !  Do  you  seriously  think,  Mrs.  Dombey,  that  I  would 
permit  my  name  to  be  handed  about  in  such  connection  ? 
Pooh,  pooh,  madam  !  Fie  for  shame  !  You're  absurd." 
Mr.  Dombey  absolutely  laughed. 

But  not  as  she  did.  She  had  better  have  been  dead  than 
laugh  as  she  did,  in  r^ply,  with  her  intent  look  fixed  upon 
him.  He  had  better  have  been  dead,  than  sitting  there,  in 
his  magnificence,  to  hear  her. 

"  No,  Mrs.  Dombey,"  he  resumed,  "  no,  madam.  There 
is  no  possibility  of  separation  between  you  and  me,  and  there- 
fore I  the  more  advise  you  to  be  awakened  to  a  sense  of 
duty.     And,  Carker,  as  I  was  about  to  say  to  you — " 

Mr.  Carker,  who  had  sat  and  listened  all  this  time,  now 
raised  his  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  bright  unusual  light. 

" — As  I  was  about  to  say  to  you,"  resumed  Mr.  Dombey, 
"  I  must  beg  you,  now  that  matters  have  come  to  this,  to 
inform  Mrs.  Dombey  that  it  is  not  the  rule  of  my  life  to 
allow  myself  to  be  thwarted  by  any  body — any  body,  Carker, 
- — or  to  suffer  any  body  to  be  paraded  as  a  stronger  motive  for 
obedience  in  those  who  owe  obedience  to  me  than  I  am  my- 
self. The  mention  that  has  been  made  of  my  daughter,  and 
the  use  that  is  made  of  my  daughter,  in  opposition  to  me, 
are  unnatural.  Whether  my  daughter  is  in  actual  concert 
with  Mrs.  Dombey,  I  do  not  know,  and  do  not  care  ;  but 
after  what  Mrs.  Dombey  has  said  to-day,  and  m.y  daugh- 
ter has  heard  to-day,  I  beg  you  to  make  known  to  Mrs. 
Dombey  that,  if  she  continues  to  make  this  house  the  scene 
of  contention  it  has  become,  I  shall  consider  my  daughter 
responsible  in  some  degree,  on  that  lady's  own  avowal,  and 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  657 

shall  visit  her  with  my  severe  displeasure.  Mrs.  Dombey  has 
asked  '  whether  it  is  not  enough  '  that  she  had  done  this  and 
ihat.     You  will  please  to  answer  no,  it  is  not  enough." 

"A  moment  !  "  cried  Carker,  interposing,  "permit  me  ! 
painful  as  my  position  is,  at  the  best,  and  unusually  painful  in 
seeming  to  entertain  a  different  opinion  from  you,"  address- 
ing Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  must  ask,  had  you  not  better  reconsider 
the  question  of  a  separation  ?  I  know  how  incompatible  it 
appears  with  your  high  public  position,  and  I  know  how 
determined  you  are  when  you  give  Mrs.  Dombey  to  under- 
stand " — the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her  as  he  separated 
his  words  each  from  each,  with  the  distinctness  of  so  many 
bells — "  that  nothing  but  death  can  ever  part  you.  Nothing 
else.  But  when  you  consider  that  Mrs.  Dombey,  by  living 
in  this  house,  and  making  it,  as  you  have  said,  a  scene  of 
contention,  not  only  as  her  part  in  that  contention,  but  com- 
promises Miss  Dombey  every  day  (for  I  know  how  deter- 
mined you  are)  will  you  not  relieve  her  from  a  continual 
irritation  of  spirit,  and  a  continual  sense  of  being  unjust 
to  another,  almost  intolerable  ?  Does  this  not  seem  like — I 
do  not  say  it  is — sacrificing  Mrs.  Dombey  to  the  preser- 
vation of  your  pre-eminent  and  unassailable  position  ?  " 

Again  the  light  in  his  eyes  fell  upon  her,  as  she  stood 
looking  at  her  husband  ;  now  with  an  extraordinary  and 
awful  smile  upon  her  face. 

"  Carker,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a  supercilious 
frown,  and  in  a  tone  that  was  intended  to  be  final,  "  you 
mistake  your  position  in  offering  advice  to  me  on  such  a 
point,  and  you  mistake  me  (I  am  surprised  to  find)  in  the 
character  of  your  advice.     I  have  no  more  to  say." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Carker,  with  an  unusual  and  indefinable 
taunt  in  his  air,  ^'' you  mistook  my  position,  when  you 
honored  me  with  the  negotiations  in  which  I  have  been 
engaged  here" — with  a  motion  of  his  hand  toward  Mrs. 
Dombey. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  other,  haughtily. 
"  You  were  employed — " 

"  Being  an  inferior  person,  for  the  humiliation  of  Mrs. 
Dombey.  I  forgot.  Oh  yes,  it  was  expressly  understood! " 
said  Carker.     "  I  beg  your  pardon  !  " 

As  he  bent  his  head  to  Mr.  Dombey,  with  an  air 
of  deference  that  accorded  ill  with  his  words,  though  they 
were  humbly  spoken,  he  moved  it  round  toward  her,  and 
kept  his  watching  eyes  that  way. 


658  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

She  had  better  have  turned  hideous  and  dropped  dead, 
than  have  stood  up  with  such  a  smile  upon  her  face,  in  such 
a  fallen  spirit's  majesty  of  scorn  and  beauty.  She  lifted  her 
hand  to  the  tiara  of  bright  jewels  radiant  on  her  head,  and 
plucking  it  off  with  a  force  that  dragged  and  strained  her 
rich  black  hair  with  heedless  cruelty,  and  brought  it 
tumbling  wildly  on  her  shoulders,  cast  the  gems  upon  the 
ground.  From  each  arm  she  unclasped  a  diamond  brace- 
let, flung  it  down,  and  trod  upon  the  glittering  heap.  With- 
out a  word,  without  a  shadow  on  the  fire  of  her  bright  eye, 
without  abatement  of  her  awful  smile,  she  looked  on  Mr. 
Dombey  to  the  last,  in  moving  to  the  door,  and  left  him. 

Florence  ;.ad  heard  enough,  before  quitting  the  room,  to 
know  that  Edith  loved  her  yet  ;  that  she  had  suffered  for  her 
sake  ;  and  that  she  had  kept  her  sacrifices  quiet,  lest  they 
should  trouble  her  peace.  She  did  not  want  to  speak  to  her 
of  this — she  could  not,  remembering  to  whom  she  was 
opposed — but  she  wished,  in  one  silent  and  affectionate 
embrace,  to  assure  her  that  she  felt  it  all,  and  thanked  her. 

-  Her  father  went  out  alone  that  evening,  and  Florence 
issuing  from  her  own  chamber  soon  afterward,  went  about 
the  house  in  search  of  Edith,  but  unavailingly.  She  was  in 
her  own  rooms,  where  Florence  had  long  ceased  to  go,  and 
did  not  dare  to  venture  now,  lest  she  should  unconsciously 
engender  new  trouble.  Still  Florence,  hoping  to  meet  her 
before  going  to  bed,  changed  from  room  to  room,  and  wan- 
dered through  the  house,  so  splendid  and  so  dreary,  without 
remaining  anywhere. 

She  was  crossing  a  gallery  of  communication  that  opened 
at  some  little  distance  on  the  staircase,  and  was  only  lighted 
on  great  occasions,  when  she  saw  through  the  opening,  which 
was  an  arch,  the  figure  of  a  man  coming  down  some  few 
stairs  opposite.  Instinctively  apprehensive  of  her  father, 
whom  she  supposed  it  was,  she  stopped  in  the  dark,  gazing 
through  the  arch  into  the  light.  But  it  was  Mr.  Carker  com- 
ing down  alone,  and  looking  over  the  railing  into  the  hall. 
No  bell  was  rung  to  announce  his  departure,  and  no  servant 
was  in  attendance.  He  went  down  quietly,  opened  the 
door  for  himself,  glided  out  and  shut  it  softly  after  him. 

Her  invincible  repugnance  to  this  man,  and  perhaps  the 
stealthy  act  of  watching  any  one,  which,  even  under  such 
innocent  circumstances,  is  in  a  manner  guilty  and  oppressive, 
made  Florence  shake  from  head  to  foot.  Her  blood  seemed 
to  run  cold.     As  soon  as  she  could — for  at  first  she  felt  an 


DOMBEY  ANI>  SON.  659 

insurmountable  dread  of  moving — she  went  quickly  to  her 
own  room  and  locked  her  door  ;  but  even  then,  shut  in  with 
her  dog  beside  her,  felt  a  chill  sensation  of  horror,  as  it 
there  were  danger  brooding  somcAvhere  near  her. 

It  invaded  her  dreams  and  disturbed  the  whole  night. 
Rising  in  the  morning  unrefreshed,  and  with  a  heavy  recol- 
lection of  the  domestic  unhappiness  of  the  preceding  day, 
she  sought  Edith  again  in  all  the  rooms,  and  did  so,  from 
time  to  time,  all  the  morning.  She  remained  in  her  own 
chamber,  and  Florence  saw  nothing  of  her.  Learning,  how- 
ever, that  the  projected  dinner  at  home  was  put  off,  Florence 
thought  it  likely  that  she  would  go  out  in  the  evening  to  fill 
the  engagement  she  had  spoken  of  ;  and  resolved  to  try  and 
meet  her  then  upon  the  staircase. 

When  the  evening  had  set  in,  she  heard,  from  the  room 
in  which  she  sat  on  purpose,  a  footstep  on  the  stairs  that 
she  thought  to  be  Edith's.  Hurrying  out,  and  up  toward 
her  room,  Florence  met  her  immediately,  coming  down  alone. 

What  was  Florence's  affright  and  wonder  when,  at  sight  of 
her  with  her  tearful  face  and  outstretched  arms,  Edith 
recoiled  and  shrieked  ! 

"  Don't  come  near  me  !  "  she  cried.  "  Keep  away  !  Let 
me  go  by  !  " 

''  Mamma  !  "  said  Florence, 

"  Don't  call  me  by  that  name  !  Don't  speak  tome  !  Don't 
look  at  me  ! — Florence  !  "  shrinking  back,  as  Florence 
moved  a  step  toward  her,  "  don't  touch  me  !  " 

As  Florence  stood  transfixed  before  the  haggard  face  and 
staring  eyes,  she  noted,  as  in  a  dream,  that  Edith  spread 
her  hands  over  them,  and  shuddering  through  all  her  form, 
and  crouching  down  against  the  wall,  crawled  by  her  like 
some  lower  animal,  sprang  up,  and  fled  away. 

Florence  dropped  upon  the  stairs  in  a  swoon  ;  and  was 
found  there  by  Mrs.  Pipchin,  she  supposed.  She  knew 
nothing  more,  until  she  found  herself  lying  on  her  own  bed, 
with   Mrs.   Pipchin   and  some  servants  standing  round  her, 

"Where  is  mamma?"  was  her  first  question. 
.  "Gone  out  to  dinner,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin. 
,    "And  papa?" 

"  Mr.  Dombey  is  in  his  own  room.  Miss  Dombey,"  said 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  the  best  thing  you  can  do,  is  to  take  off 
your  things  and  go  to  bed  this  minute."  This  was  the 
sagacious  woman's  remedy  for  all  complaints,  particularly 
lowness  of  spirits,  and  inability  to  sleep  ;  for  which  offenses, 


66o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

many  young  victims  in  the  days  of  the  Brighton  Castle  had 
been  committed  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

Without  promising  obedience,  but  on  the  plea  of  desiring 
to  be  very  quiet,  Florence  disengaged  herself  as  soon  as  she 
could  from  the  ministration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  her  attend- 
ants. Left  alone,  she  thought  of  what  had  happened  on  the 
staircase,  at  first  in  doubt  of  its  reality  ;  then  with  tears  ; 
then  with  an  indescribable  and  terrible  alarm,  like  that  she 
had  felt  the  night  before. 

She  determined  not  to  go  to  bed  until  Edith  returned, 
and  if  she  could  not  speak  to  her,  at  least  to  be  sure  that 
she  was  safe  at  home.  What  indistinct  and  shadowy  dread 
moved  Florence  to  this  resolution,  she  did  not  know,  and 
did  not  dare  to  think.  She  only  knew  that,  until  Edith 
came  back,  there  was  no  repose  for  her  aching  head  or 
throbbing  heart. 

The  evening  deepened  into  night ;  midnight  came  ;  no 
Edith. 

Florence  could  not  read,  nor  rest  a  moment.  She  paced 
her  room,  opened  the  door  and  paced  the  staircase-gallery 
outside,  looked  out  of  window  on  the  night,  listened  to  the 
wind  blowing  and  the  rain  falling,  sat  down  and  watched 
the  faces  in  the  fire,  got  up  and  watched  the  moon  flying 
like  a  storm-driven  ship  through  the  sea  of  clouds. 

All  the  house  was  gone  to  bed,  except  two  servants  who 
were  waiting  the  return  of  their  mistress  down-stairs. 

One  o'clock.  The  carriages  that  rumbled  in  the  distance 
turned  away,  or  stopped  short,  or  went  past  ;  the  silence 
gradually  deepened,  and  was  more  and  more  rarely  broken, 
save  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  sweep  of  rain.  Two  o'clock. 
No  Edith  ! 

Florence,  more  agitated,  paced  her  room,  and  paced  the 
gallery  outside  ;  and  looked  out  at  the  night,  blurred  and 
wavy  with  the  rain-drops  on  the  glass,  and  the  tears  in  her 
own  eyes  ;  and  looked  up  at  the  hurry  in  the  sky,  so  differ- 
ent from  the  repose  below,  and  yet  so  tranquil  and  solitary. 
Three  o'clock  !  There  was  a  terror  in  every  ash  that 
dropped  out  of  the  fire.     No  Edith  yet. 

More  and  more  agitated,  Florence  paced  her  room,  and 
paced  the  gallery,  and  looked  out  at  the  moon  with  a  new 
fancy  of  her  likeness  to  a  pale  fugitive  hurrying  away  and 
hiding  her  guilty  face.  Four  struck  !  Five  !  No  Edith  yet. 
-  But  now  there  was  some  cautious  stir  in  the  house  ;  and 
Florence  found  that  Mrs.  Pipchin  had  been  awakened  by 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  66i 

one  of  those  who  sat  up,  had  risen  and  had  gone  down  to 
her  father's  door.  SteaHng  lower  down  the  stairs,  and 
observing  what  passed,  she  saw  her  father  come  out  in  his 
morning-gown,  and  start  when  he  was  told  his  wife  had  not 
come  home.  He  dispatched  a  messenger  to  the  stables  to 
inquire  whether  the  coachman  was  there  ;  and  while  the 
man  was  gone,  dressed  himself  very  hurriedly. 

The  man  came  back  in  great  haste,  bringing  the  coach- 
man with  him,  who  said  he  had  been  at  home  and  in  bed 
since  ten  o'clock.  He  had  driven  his  mistress  to  her  old 
house  in  Brook  Street,  where  she  had  been  met  by  Mr. 
Carker — 

Florence  stood  upon  the  very  spot  where  she  had  seen 
him  coming  down.  Again  she  shivered  with  the  nameless 
terror  of  that  sight,  and  had  hardly  steadiness  enough  to 
hear  and  understand  what  followed. 

— Who  had  told  him,  the  man  went  on  to  say,  that  his 
mistress  would  not  want  the  carriage  to  go  home  in  ;  and 
had  dismissed  him. 

She  saw  her  father  turn  white  in  the  face,  and  heard 
him  ask  in  a  quick,  trembling  voice  for  Mrs.  Dombey's 
maid.  The  whole  house  vv-as  roused  ;  for  she  was  there  in 
a  moment,  very  pale  too,  and  speaking  incoherently. 

She  said  she  had  dressed  her  mistress  early — full  two 
hours  before  she  went  out — and  had  been  told,  as  she  often 
was,  that  she  would  not  be  wanted  at  night.  She  had  just 
come  from  her  mistress's  rooms,  but — 

"  But  what  !  what  vv-as  it  .^ "  Florence  heard  her  father 
demand,  like  a  madman. 

"  But  the  inner  dressing-room  was  locked,  and  the  key 
gone." 

Her  father  seized  a  candle  that  was  flaming  on  the  ground 
— some  one  had  put  it  down  there,  and  forgotten  it — and 
came  running  up-stairs  with  such  fury,  that  Florence,  in  her 
fear,  had  hardly  time  to  fly  before  him.  She  heard  him 
striking  in  the  door  as  she  ran  on,  with  her  hands  widely 
spread,  and  her  hair  streaming,  and  her  face  Hke  a  dis- 
tracted person's,  back  to  her  own  room. 

When  the  door  yielded  and  he  rushed  in  what  did  he  see 
there  ?  No  one  knev>'.  But  throv/n  down  in  a  costly  mass 
upon  the  ground,  was  every  ornament  she  had  had  since  she 
had  been  his  wife  ;  every  dress  she  had  worn  ;  and  every 
thing  she  had  possessed.  This  was  the  room  in  which  he 
had  seen,  in  yonder  mirror,  the  proud  face  discard  him. 


662  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

This  was  the  room  in  which  he  had  wondered,  idly,  how 
these  things  would  look  when  he  should  see  them  next  ! 

Heaping  them  back  in  the  drawers,  and  locking  them  up 
in  a  rage  of  haste,  he  saw  some  papers  on  the  table.  The 
deed  of  settlement  he  had  executed  on  their  marriage  and  a 
letter.  He  read  that  she  was  gone.  He  read  that  he  was 
dishonored.  He  read  that  she  had  fled,  upon  her  shameful 
wedding  day,  with  a  man  whom  he  had  chosen  for  her  humili- 
ation ;  and  he  tore  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house,  with 
a  frantic  idea  of  finding  her  yet  at  the  place  to  which  she 
had  been  taken,  and  beating  all  trace  of  beauty  out  of  the 
triumphant  face  with  his  bare  hand. 

Florence,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  put  on  a  shawl  and 
bonnet,  in  a  dream  of  running  through  the  streets  until  she 
found  Edith,  and  then  clasping  her  in  her  arms,  to  save  and 
bring  her  back.  But  when  she  hurried  out  upon  the  stair- 
case, and  saw  the  frightened  servants  going  up  and  down 
with  lights,  and  whispering  together,  and  falling  away  from 
her  father  as  he  passed  down,  she  awoke  to  the  sense  of  her 
own  powerlessness  ;  and  hiding  in  one  of  the  great  rooms 
that  had  been  made  gorgeous  for  thisj  felt  as  if  her  heart 
would  burst  with  grief. 

Compassion  for  her  father  was  the  first  distinct  emotion 
that  made  head  against  the  flood  of  sorrow  which  over- 
whelmed her.  Her  constant  nature  turned  to  him  in  his 
distress,  as  fervently  and  faithfulh',  as  if,  in  his  prosperity, 
he  had  been  the  embodiment  of  that  idea  which  had  grad- 
ually become  so  faint  and  dim.  Although  she  did  not  know 
otherwise  than  through  the  suggestions  of  a  shapeless  fear, 
the  full  extent  of  his  calamity,  he  stood  before  her  wronged 
md  deserted  ;  and  again  her  yearning  love  impelled  her  to 
his  side. 

He  was  not  long  away  ;  for  Florence  was  yet  weeping  in 
the  great  room  and  nourishing  these  thoughts,  when  she 
heard  him  come  back:  He  ordered  the  servants  to  set  about 
their  ordinary  occupations,  and  went  into  his  own  apartment, 
where  he  trod  so  heavily  that  she  could  hear  him  walking  up 
and  down  from  end  to  end. 

Yielding  at  once  to  the  impulse  of  her  affection,  timid  at 
other  times,  but  bold  in  its  truth  to  him  in  his  adversity,  and 
undaunted  by  past  repulse,  Florence,  dressed  as  she  was, 
hurried  down-stairs.  As  she  set  her  light  foot  in  the  hall, 
he  came  out  of  his  room.  She  hastened  toward  him 
unchecked,  with  her  arms  stretched  out,  and  crying  "  Oh 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  663 

dear,  dear  papa  ! "  as  if  she  would  have  clasped  him  around 
the  neck. 

And  so  she  would  have  done  But  in  his  frenzy,  he 
lifted  up  his  cruel  arm  and  struck  her,  crosswise,  with  that 
heaviness,  that  she  tottered  on  the  marble  floor  ;  and  as  he 
dealt  the  blow  he  told  her  what  Edith  was,  and  bade  her 
follow  her,  since  they  had  always  been  in  league. 

She  did  not  sink  down  at  his  feet  ;  she  did  not  shut  out 
the  sight  of  him  with  her  trembling  hands  ;  she  did  not 
weep  ;  she  did  not  utter  one  word  of  reproach.  But  she 
looked  at  him,  and  a  cry  of  desolation  issued  from  her 
heart.  For  as  she  looked,  she  saw  him  murdering  that  fond 
idea  to  which  she  had  held  in  spite  of  him.  She  saw  his 
cruelty,  neglect  and  hatred  dominant  above  it,  and  stamping 
it  down.  She  saw  she  had  no  father  upon  earth,  and  ran 
out,  orphaned,  from  his  house. 

Ran  out  of  his  house.  A  moment,  and  her  hand  was  on 
the  lock,  the  cry  was  on  her  lips,  his  face  was  there,  made 
paler  by  the  yellow  candles  hastily  put  down  and  guttering 
away,  and  by  the  daylight  coming  in  above  the  door. 
Another  moment,  and  the  close  darkness  of  the  shut-up 
house  (forgotten  to  be  opened,  though  it  was  long  since  day) 
yielded  to  the  unexpected  glare  and  freedom  of  the  morn- 
ing ;  and  Florence,  with  her  head  bent  down  to  hide  her 
agony  of  tears,  was  in  the  streets. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  FLORENCE. 

In  the  wildness  of  her  sorrow,  shame,  and  terror,  the  for- 
lorn girl  hurried  through  the  sunshine  of  a  bright  morning, 
as  if  it  were  the  darkness  of  a  winter  night.  Wringing  her 
liands  and  weeping  bitterly,  insensible  to  every  thing  but  the 
deep  wound  in  her  breast,  stunned  by  the  loss  of  all  she 
loved,  left  like  the  sole  survivor  on  a  lonely  shore  from  the 
wreck  of  a  great  vessel,  she  fled  without  a  thought,  without 
a  hope,  without  a  purpose,  but  to  fly  somewhere — any- 
where. 

The  cheerful  vista  of  the  long  street,  burnished  by  the 
morning  light,  the  sight  of  the  blue  sky  and  airy  clouds,  the 
vigorous  freshness  of  the  day,  so  flushed  and  rosy  in  its  con- 
quest of  the  night,  awakened  no  responsive  feelings  in  her 


064  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

so  hurt  bosom.  Somewhere,  anywhere,  to  hide  her  head  ! 
somewhere,  anywhere,  for  refuge,  nevermore  to  look  upon 
the  place  from  which  she  fled  ! 

But  there  vrere  people  going  to  and  fro  ;  there  were  open- 
ing shops,  and  servants  at  the  doors  of  houses  ;  there  was 
the  rising  clash  and  roar  of  the  day's  struggle,  Florence 
saw  surprise  and  curiosity  in  the  faces  flitting  past  her  ; 
saw  long  shadows  coming  back  upon  the  pavement ;  and 
heard  voices  that  were  strange  to  her  asking  her  where  she 
went,  and  what  the  matter  was  ;  and  though  these  frightened 
her  the  more  at  first,  and  made  her  hurry  on  the  faster,  they 
did  her  the  good  service  of  recalling  her  in  some  degree  to 
herself,  and  reminding  her  of  the  necessity  of  greater  com- 
posure. 

Where  to  go  ?  Still  somewhere,  anywhere  !  still  going  on  ; 
but  where  !  She  thought  of  the  only  other  time  she  had 
been  lost  in  the  wide  wilderness  of  London — though  not 
lost  as  now — and  went  that  way.  To  the  home  of  Walter's 
uncle. 

Checking  her  sobs,  and  drying  her  swollen  eyes,  and 
endeavoring  to  calm  the  agitation  of  her  manner,  so  as  to 
avoid  attracting  notice,  Florence,  resolving  to  keep  to  the 
more  quiet  streets  as  long  as  she  could,  was  going  on  more 
quietly  herself,  when  a  familiar  little  shadow  darted  past 
upon  the  sunny  pavement,  stopped  short,  wheeled  about, 
came  close  to  her,  made  off  again*,  bounded  round  and  round 
her,  and  Diogenes,  panting  for  breath,  and  yet  making  the 
street  ring  with  his  glad  bark,  was  at  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  Di  !  oh,  dear,  true,  faithful  Di,  how  did  you  come 
here  !  How  could  I  ever  leave  you,  Di,  who  would  never 
leave  me  !  " 

Florence  bent  down  on  the  pavement,  and  laid  his  rough, 
old,  loving,  foolish  head  against  her  breast,  and  they  got  up- 
together,  and  went  on  together  ;  Di  more  off  the  ground 
than  on  it,  endeavoring  to  kiss  his  mistress  flying,  tumbling 
over  and  getting  up  again  without  the  least  concern,  dashing 
at  big  dogs  in  a  jocose  defiance  of  his  species,  terrifying 
with  touches  of  his  nose  young  house-maids  who  were  clean- 
ing doorsteps,  and  continually  stopping,  in  the  midst  of  a 
thousand  extravagances,  to  look  back  at  Florence,  and  bark 
until  all  the  dogs  within  hearing  answered,  and  all  the  dogs 
who  could  come  out  came  out  to  stare  at  him. 

With  this  last  adherent,  Florence  hurried  away  in  the 
advancing  morning,  and  the   strengthening  sunshine,  to  the 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  665 

city.  The  roar  soon  grew  more  loud,  the  passengers  more 
numerous,  the  shops  more  busy,  until  she  was  carried  onward 
in  a  stream  of  life  setting  that  way,  and  flowing,  indifferently, 
past  marts,  and  mansions,  prisons,  churches,  market- 
places, wealth,  poverty,  good,  and  evil,  like  the  broad  river 
side  by  side  with  it,  awakened  from  its  dreams  of  rushes, 
willows,  and  green  moss,  and  rolling  on,  turbid  and  troubled, 
among  the  works  and  cares  of  m^en,  to  the  deep  sea. 

At  length  the  quarters  of  the  little  midshipman  arose  in 
view.  Nearer  yet,  and  the  little  midshipman  himself  was 
seen  upon  his  post,  intent  as  ever  on  his  observations. 
Nearer  yet,  and  the  door  stood  open,  inviting  her  to  enter. 
Florence,  who  had  again  quickened  her  pace,  as  she 
approached  the  end  of  her  journey,  ran  across  the  road 
(closely  followed  by  Diogenes,  whom  the  bustle  had  some- 
what confused),  ran  in,  and  sank  upon  the  threshold  of  the 
well-remembered  little  parlor. 

The  captain,  in  his  glazed  hat,  was  standing  over  the  fire, 
making  his  morning's  cocoa,  with  that  elegant  trifle,  his 
watch,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  for  easy  reference  during  the 
progress  of  the  cookery.  Hearing  a  footstep  and  the  rustle 
of  a  dress,  the  captain 'turned,  with  a  palpitating  remem- 
brance of  the  dreadful  Mrs.  MacStinger,  at  the  instant  when 
Florence  made  a  motion  with  her  hand  toward  him,  reeled, 
and  fell  upon  the  floor. 

The  captain,  pale  as  Florence,  pale  in  the  very  knobs 
upon  his  face,  raised  her  like  a  baby,  and  laid  her  on  the 
same  old  sofa  upon  which  she  had  slumbered  long  ago. 

"  It's  Heart's  Delight  !  "said  the  captain,  looking  intently 
in  her  face.     "  It's  the  sweet  creetur  grow'd  a  woman  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle  was  so  respectful  of  her,  and  had  such  a 
reverence  for  her,  in  this  new  character,  that  he  would  not 
have  held  her  in  his  arms,  while  she  was  unconscious,  for  a 
thousand  pounds. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight  !  "  said  the  captain,  withdrawing  to 
a  little  distance,  with  the  greatest  alarm  and  sympathy 
depicted  on  his  countenance.  "  If  you  can  hail  Ned  Cuttle 
with  a  finger,  do  it  ! " 

But  Florence  did  not  stir. 

"  My  Heart's  Delight  !  "  said  the  trembling  captain.  "  For 
the  sake  of  Wal'r  drownded  in  the  briny  deep,  turn  to,  and 
histe  up  something  or  another,  if  able." 

Finding  her  insensible  to  this  impressive  adjuration,  also. 
Captain  Cuttle  snatched  from  his  breakfast  table,  a  basin  of 


666  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

cold  water,  and  sprinkled  some  upon  her  face.  Yielding  to 
the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  captain  then,  using  his  immense 
hand  with  extraordinary  gentleness,  relieved  her  of  her  bon- 
net, moistened  her  lips  and  forehead,  put  back  her  hair, 
covered  her  feet  with  his  own  coat,  which  he  pulled  off  for 
the  purpose,  patted  her  hand — so  small  in  his,  that  he  was 
struck  with  wonder  when  he  touched  it — and  seeing  that  her 
eyelids  quivered,  and  that  her  lips  began  to  move,  continued 
these  restorative  applications  with  a  better  heart. 

*'  Cheerily,"  said  the  captain.  "  Cheerily  !  Stand  by,  my 
pretty  one,  stand  by  !  There  !  You're  better  now\ 
Steady's  the  word,  and  steady  it  is.  Keep  her  so  !  Drink  a 
little  drop  o'  this  here,"  said  the  captain.  "  There  you  are  ! 
What  cheer  now,  my  pretty,  what  cheer  now  ?  " 

At  this  stage  of  her  recovery.  Captain  Cuttle,  with  an 
imperfect  association  of  a  watch  with  a  physician's  treatment 
of  a  patient,  took  his  own  down  from  the  mantle-shelf,  and 
holding  it  out  on  his  hook,  and  taking  Florence's  hand  in 
his,  looked  steadily  from  one  to  the  other,  as  expecting  the 
dial  to  do  something. 

"  What  cheer,  my  pretty  ? "  said  the  captain.  "  What 
cheer  now  ?  You've  done  her  som'e  good,  my  lad,  I  believe," 
said  the  captain,  under  his  breath,  and  throwing  an  approv- 
ing glance  upon  his  vv^atch.  '^  Put  you  back  half  an  hour 
every  morning,  and  about  another  quarter  toward  the  after- 
noon, and  you're  a  watch  as  can  be  ekaled  by  few  and 
excelled  by  none.     What  cheer,  my  lady  lass  !  " 

"  Captain  Cuttle  !  Is  it  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Florence,  raising 
herself  a  little. 

'Yes,  yes,  my  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  hastily  decid- 
ing in  his  own  mind  upon  the  superior  elegance  of  that 
form  of  address,  as  the  most  courtly  he  could  think 
of. 

"  Is  Walter's  uncle  here  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

'' Here,  pretty  !"  returned  the  captain.  "He  ain't  been 
here  this  many  a  long  day.  He  ain't  been  heerd  on 
since  he  sheered  off  arter  poor  Wal'r.  But,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, as  a  quotation,  "  Though  lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear, 
and  England,  Home,  and  Beauty  !  " 

"  Do  you  live  here  ? "  asked  Florence. 

"Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain. 

"  Oh,  Captain  Cuttle  !  "  cried  Florence,  putting  her  hands 
together,  and  speaking  wildly.  "  Save  me  !  keep  me  here  ! 
Let  no  one  know  where  I  am  !     I'll  tell  you  what   has  hap- 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  667 

pened  by-and-by,  when  I  can.  I  have  no  one  in  the  world 
to  go  to.     Do  not  send  me  away  !  " 

''Send you  avray,  my  lady  lass  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain. 
"  Vol/,  my  Heart's  DeHght !  Stay  a  bit  !  We'll  put  up  this 
here  dead-light,  and  take  a  double   turn  on  the  key  !  " 

With  these  words,  the  captain,  using  his  one  hand  and  his 
hook  with  the  greatest  dexterity,  got  out  the  shutter  of  the 
door,  put  it  up,  made  it  all  fast,  and  locked  the  door 
itself. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  side  of  Florence,  she  took  his 
hand,  and  kissed  it.  The  helplessness  of  the  action,  the 
appeal  it  made  to  him,  the  confidence  it  expressed,  the 
unspeakable  sorrow  in  her  face,  the  pain  of  mind  she  had 
too  plainly  suffered,  and  was  suffering  then,  his  knowledge 
of  her  past  history,  her  present  lonely,  worn,  and  unpro- 
tected appearance,  all  so  rushed  upon  the  good  captain 
together,  that  he  fairly  overflowed  with  compassion  and  gen- 
tleness. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  polishing  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  with  his  arm  until  it  shone  like  burnished  copper, 
"  don't  you  say  a  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle  until  such  times  as 
you  finds  yourself  a-riding  smooth  and  easy  ;  which  won't 
be  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow.  And  as  to  giving  of  you  up, 
or  reporting  where  you  are,  yes,  verily,  and  by  God's  help, 
so  I  won't,  church  catechism  make  a  note  on  !  " 

This  the  captain  said,  reference  and  all,  in  one  breath,  and 
with  much  solemnity  ;  taking  off  his  hat  at  ''  yes,  verily," 
and  putting  it  on  again  when  lie  had  quite  concluded. 

Florence  could  do  but  one  thing  more  to  thank  him,  and 
to  show  him  how  she  trusted  in  him  ;  and  she  did  it. 
Clinging  to  this  rough  creature  as  the  last  asylum  of  her 
bleeding  heart,  she  laid  her  head  upon  his  honest  shoulder, 
and  clasped  him  round  his  neck,  and  would  have  kneeled 
down  to  bless  him,  but  that  he  divined  her  purpose,  and 
held  her  up  like  a  true  man. 

"  Steady  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  Steady  !  You're  too 
weak  to  stand,  you  see,  my  pretty,  and  must  lie  down  here 
again.  There,  there  I  "  To  see  the  captain  lift  her  on  the 
sofa,  and  cover  her  with  his  coat,  would  have  been  worth  a 
hundred  state  sights.  "And  now,"  said  the  captain,  "you 
must  take  some  breakfast,  lady  lass,  and  the  dog  shall  have 
some,  too.  And  arter  that  you  shall  go  aloft  to  old  Sol 
Gills's  room,  and  fall  asleep  there,  like  an  angel." 

Captain  Cuttle  patted  Diogenes  when  he  made  allusion  to 


668  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

him,  and  Diogenes  met  that  overture  graciously,  half-way. 
During  the  administration  of  the  restoratives  he  had  clearly 
been  in  two  minds — whether  to  fly  at  the  captain  or  to  offer 
him  his  triendehip  ;  and  he  had  expressed  that  conflict  of 
feeling  by  alternate  waggings  of  his  tail,  and  displays  of  his 
teeth,  with  now  and  then  a  growl  or  so.  But  by  this  time 
his  doubts  were  all  removed.  It  was  plain  that  he  consid- 
ered the  captain  one  of  the  most  amiable  of  men,  and  a  man 
whom  it  was  an  honor  to  a  dog  to  know. 

In  evidence  of  these  convictions,  Diogenes  attended  on 
the  captain  while  he  made  some  tea  and  toast,  and  showed  a 
lively  interest  in  his  housekeeping.  But  it  was  in  vain  for 
the  kind  captain  to  make  such  preparations  for  Florence, 
who  sorely  tried  to  do  some  honor  to  them,  but  could  touch 
nothing,  and  could  only  Aveep  and  weep  again. 

"Well,  well!"  said  the  compassionate  captain,  '' arter 
turning  in,  my  Heart's  Delight,  you'll  get  more  v/ay  upon 
you.  Now  I'll  serve  out  your  allowance,  my  lad."  To 
Diogenes.  "  And  you  shall  keep  guard  on  your  mistress 
aloft.  ' 

Diogenes,  however,  although  he  had  been  eying  his  in- 
tended breakfast  with  a  watering  mouth  and  glistening  eyes, 
instead  of  falling  to  ravenously,  when  it  was  put  before  him, 
pricked  up  his  ears,  darted  to  the  shop-door,  and  barked 
there  furiously  ;  burrowing  with  his  head  at  the  bottom,  as 
if  he  were  bent  on  mining  his  way  out. 

"  Can  there  be  any  body  there  ? "  asked  Florence,  in 
alarm. 

"  No,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain,  "  Who'd  stay 
there,  without  making  any  noise  !  Keep  up  a  good  heart, 
pretty.     It's  only  people  going  by." 

But  for  all  that,  Diogenes  barked  and  barked,  and  bur- 
rowed and  burrowed,  with  pertinacious  fury  ;  and  whenever 
he  stopped  to  listen,  appeared  to  receive  some  new  convic- 
tion into  his  mind,  for  he  set  to,  barking  and  burrowing 
again,  a  dozen  times.  Even  when  he  was  persuaded  to 
return  to  his  breakfast,  he  came  jogging  back  to  it,  vvith  a 
very  doubtful  air  ;  and  was  off  again,  in  another  paroxysm, 
before  touching  a  morsel. 

*'  If  there  should  be  some  one  listening  and  watching," 
whispered  Florence.  "  Some  one  who  saw  me  come — who 
followed  me,  perhaps." 

"  It  ain't  the  young  woman,  lady  lass,  is  it  ?  "  said  the 
captain,  taken  with  a  bright  idea. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  669 

"Susan?"  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head.  "  Ah  no  ! 
Susan  has  been  gone  from  me  a  long  time." 

"  Not  deserted,  I  hope  ?  "  said  the  captain.  "  Don't  say 
that  there  young  woman's  run,  my  pretty  !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  "  cried  Florence.  *'  She  is  one  of  the  truest 
hearts  in  the  world  !  " 

The  captain  was  greatly  relieved  by  this  reply,  and  ex- 
pressed his  satisfaction  by  taking  off  his  hard  glazed  hat, 
and  dabbing  his  head  all  over  Avith  his  handkerchief,  rolled 
up  like  a  ball,  observing  several  times,  with  infinite  com- 
placency, and  with  a  beaming  countenance,  that  he  know'd 
it. 

"  So  you're  quiet  now,  are  you,  brother  ?  "  said  the  cap- 
tain to  Diogenes.  ''  There  warn't  nobody  there,  my  lady 
lass,  bless  you  !  " 

Diogenes  was  not  so  sure  of  that.  The  door  still  had  an 
attraction  for  him  at  intervals  ;  and  he  went  snuffing  about 
it,  and  growling  to  himself,  unable  to  forget  the  subject. 
This  incident,  coupled  with  the  captain's  observation  of 
Florence's  fatigue  and  faintness,  decided  him  to  prepare  Sol 
Gills's  chamber  as  a  place  of  retirement  for  her  immediately 
He  therefore  hastily  betook  himself  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  and  made  the  best  arrangement  of  it  that  his  imagi- 
nation and  his  means  suggested. 

It  was  very  clean  already  ;  and  the  captain  being  an 
orderly  man,  and  accustomed  to  make  things  ship-shape, 
converted  the  bed  into  a  couch,  by  covering  it  all  over  with 
a  clean  white  drapery.  By  a  simiilar  contrivance,  the  cap- 
tain converted  the  little  dressing-table  into  a  species  of  altar, 
on  which  he  set  forth  tv.'o  silver  tea-spoons,  a  flower-pot,  a 
telescope,  his  celebrated  watch,  a  pocket- comb,  and  a  song- 
book,  as  a  small  collection  of  rarities,  that  made  a  choice 
appearance.  Having  darkened  the  window,  and  straight- 
ened the  pieces  of  carpet  on  the  floor,  the  captain  surveyed 
these  preparations  with  great  delight,  and  descended  to  the 
little  parlor  again,  to  bring  Florence  to  her  bower. 

Nothing  would  induce  the  captain  to  believe  that  it  was 
possible  for  Florence  to  walk  up-stairs.  If  he  could  have 
got  the  idea  into  his  head,  he  vrould  have  considered  it  an 
outrageous  breach  of  hospitality  to  allow  her  to  do  so. 
Florence  was  too  weak  to  dispute  the  point,  and  the  captain 
carried  her  up  out  of  hand,  laid  her  down,  and  covered  her 
with  a  great  watch-coat. 

"  My  lady  lass  !  "  said  the  captain,   *'  you're  as  safe  here 


670  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

as  if  you  was  at  the  top  of  St.  Paul's  cathedral,  with  the 
ladder  cast  off.  Sleep  is  what  you  want  afore  all  other 
things,  and  may  you  be  able  to  show  yourself  smart  with 
that  there  balsam  for  the  still  small  woice  of  a  wownded 
mind  !  When  there's  any  thing  you  want,  my  Heart's 
Delight,  as  this  here  humble  house  or  town  can  offer,  pass 
the  word  to  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  as'U  stand  off  and  on  outside 
that  door,  and  that  there  man  will  wibrate  with  joy."  The 
captain  concluded  by  kissing  the  hand  that  Florence  stretched 
out  to  him,  with  the  chivalry  of  any  old  knight-errant,  and 
walking  on  tiptoe  out  of  the  room. 

Descending  to  the  little  parlor,  Captain  Cuttle,  after  hold- 
ing a  hasty  council  with  himself,  decided  to  open  the  shop- 
door  for  a  few  minutes,  and  satisfy  himself  that  now,  at  all 
events,  there  was  no  one  loitering  about  it.  Accordingly  he 
set  it  open,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold,  keeping  a  bright 
look-out,  and  sweeping  the  whole   street  with  his  spectacles. 

"  How  de  do.  Captain  Gills  ?  "  said  a  voice  beside  him. 
The  captain  looking  down,  found  that  he  had  been  boarded 
by  Mr.  Toots  while  sweeping  the  horizon. 

"  How  are  you,  my  lad  ?  "  replied  the  captain. 

"  Well,  I'm  pretty  well,  thankee.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr. 
Toots.  "  You  know  I'm  never  quite  what  I  could  wish 
to  be,  now.  I  don't  expect  that  I  ever  shall  be  any 
more." 

Mr.  Toots  never  approached  any  nearer  than  this  to  the 
great  theme  of  his  life,  when  in  conversation  with  Captain 
Cuttle,  on  account  of  the  agreement  between  them. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  if  I  could  have  the 
pleasure  of  a  word  with  you,  it's — it's  rather  particular." 

"  Why,  you  see,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  leading  the 
way  into  the  parlor,  "  I  ain't  what  you  may  call  exactly  free 
this  morning  ;  and  therefore  if  you  can  clap  on  a  bit,  I 
should  take  it  kindly." 

*'  Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  who  sel- 
dom had  any  notion  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  To  clap 
on  is  exactly  what  I  could  wish  to  do.     Naturally." 

^'  If  so  be,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  '*  do  it  !  " 

The  captain  was  so  impressed  by  the  possession  of  his 
tremendous  secret — by  the  fact  of  Miss  Dombey  being  at 
that  moment  under  his  roof,  while  the  innocent  and  uncon- 
scious Toots  sat  opposite  to  him — that  a  perspiration  broke 
out  on  his  forehead,  and  he  found  it  impossible  while  slowly 
drying  the  same,  glazed  hat  in  hand,  to  keep  his  eyes  off  Mr, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  671 

Toots's  face.  Mr.  Toots,  who  himself  appeared  to  have 
some  secret  reasons  for  being  in  a  nervous  state,  was  so 
unspeakably  disconcerted  by  the  captain's  stare,  that  after 
looking  at  him  vacantly  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  shift- 
ing uneasily  on  his  chair,  he  said  : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Captain  Gills,  but  you  don't  happen 
to  see  any  thing  particular  in  me,  do  you  ? " 

"  No,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.     "  No." 

*'  Because  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  chuckle,  "  I 
KNOW  I'm  wasting  away.  You  needn't  at  all  mind  alluding 
to  that.  I— I  should  like  it.  Burgess  and  Co.  have  altered 
my-  measure,  I'm  in  that  state  of  thinness.  It's  a  gratifica- 
tion to  me.  L— I'm  glad  of  it.  I— I'd  a  great  deal  rather 
go  into  a  decline,  if  I  could.  I'm  a  mere  brute,  you  know, 
grazing  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth.  Captain  Gills." 

The  more  Mr.  Toots  went  on  in  this  way,  the  more  the 
captain  was  weighed  down  by  his  secret,  and  stared  at  him. 
What  with  this  cause  of  uneasiness,  and  his  desire  to  get 
rid  of  Mr.  Toots,  the  captain  was  in  such  a  scared  and 
strange  condition,  indeed,  that,  if  he  had  been  in  conversa- 
tion with  a  ghost,  he  could  hardly  have  evinced  greater  dis- 
composure. 

"  But  I  was  going  to  say,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots. 
"  Happening  to  be^this  way  early  this  morning— to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  was  coming  to  breakfast  with  you.  As  to  sleep, 
you  know,  I  never  sleep  now.  I  might  be  a  watchman, 
except  that  I  don't  get  any  pay,  and  he's  got  nothing  on  his 

mind." 

'*  Carry  on,  my  lad  !  "  said  the  captain,  in  an  admonitory 

voice. 

"  Certainly,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  ''  Perfectly 
true  !  Happening  to  be  this  way  early  this  morning  (an 
hour  or  so  ago),  and  finding  the  door  shut — " 

"  What  !  were  jtv/  waiting  there,  brother  ?  "  demanded  the 
captain. 

"  Not  at  all.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  I 
didn't  stop  a  moment.  I  thought  you  were  out.  But  the 
person  said — by  the  by,  you  dont  keep  a  dog,  do  you,  Captain 
Gills  ?  " 

The  captain  shook  his  head. 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''  that's  exactly  what  I 
said.  I  knew  you  didn't.  There  is  a  dog.  Captain  Gills, 
connected  with — but  excuse  me.    That's  forbidden  ground." 

The  captain  stared  at  Mr.  Toots  until  he  seemed  to  swell 


072  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

to  twice  his  natural  size  ;  and  again  the  perspiration  broke 
out  on  the  captain's  forehead,  when  he  thought  of  Diogenes 
taking  it  into  his  head  to  come  down  and  make  a  third  in 
the  parlor. 

"  The  person  said,"  continued  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  he  had 
heard  a  dog  barking  in  the  shop  ;  which  I  knew  couldn't  be, 
and  I  told  him  so.  But  he  was  as  positive  as  if  he  had  seen 
the  dog." 

"  What  person,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Why,  you  see,  there  it  is.  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
with  a  perceptible  increase  in  the  nervousness  of  his  manner. 
"  It's  not  for  me  to  say  what  may  have  taken  place,  or 
what  may  not  have  taken  place.  Indeed,  I  don't  know.  I 
get  mixed  up  with  all  sorts  of  things  that  I  don't  quite 
understand,  and  I  think  there's  something  rather  weak  in 
my — in  my  head,  in  short." 

The  captain  nodded  his  own,  as  a  mark  of  assent. 

"  But  the  person  said,  as  we  were  walking  away,"  contin- 
ued Mr.  Toots,  *'  that  you  knew  what,  under  existing  cir- 
cumstances, fmght  occur — he  said  *  might  '  very  strongly— - 
and  that  if  you  were  requested  to  prepare  yourself,  you 
would,  no  doubt,  come  prepared." 

"  Person,  my  lad  !  "  the  captain  repeated. 

*'  I  don't  know  what  person,  I'm  sure.  Captain  Gills," 
replied  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  But  coming  to 
the  door,  I  found  him  waiting  there  ;  and  he  said  was  I  com- 
ing back  again,  and  I  said  yes  ;  and  he  said  did  I  know  you, 
and  I  said  yes,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance — you 
had  given  me  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance,  after  some 
persuasion  ;  and  he  said,  if  that  was  the  case,  would  I  say 
to  you  what  I  have  said,  about  existing  circumstances  and 
coming  prepared,  and  as  soon  as  ever  I  saw  you,  would  I 
ask  you  to  step  round  the  corner,  if  it  was  only  for  one  min- 
ute, on  most  important  business,  to  ^vlr.  Brogley's  the 
broker's.  Now,  I  tell  you  what.  Captain  Gills — whatever  it 
is,  I  am  convinced  it's  very  important  ;  and  if  you  like  to 
step  round,  now,  I'll  wait  here  till  you  come  back." 

The  captain,  divided  between  his  fear  of  compromising 
Florence  in  some  way  by  not  going,  and  his  horror  of  leav- 
ing Mr.  Toots  in  possession  of  the  house  with  a  chance  of 
finding  out  the  secret,  was  a  spectacle  of  mental  disturbance 
that  even  Mr.  Toots  could  not  be  blind  to.  But  that  young 
gentleman,  considering  his  nautical  friend  as  merely  in  a 
state  of  preparation  for  the  interview  he  was  going  to  have, 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  673 

/as  quite  satisfied,  and  did  not  review  his  own  discreet  con- 
iuct  without  chuckles. 

At  length  the  captain  decided,  as  the  lesser  of  two  evils, 
to  run  round  to  Brogley's  the  broker's  ;  previously  locking 
the  door  that  communicated  with  the  upper  part  of  the 
house,  and  putting  the  key  in  his  pocket.  ''  If  so  be,"  said 
the  captain  to  Mr.  Toots,  with  not  a  little  shame  and  hesita- 
tion, "  as  you'll  excuse  my  doing  of  it,  brother." 

"  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  ''  whatever  you  do, 
is  satisfactory  to  me." 

The  captain  thanked  him  heartily,  and  promising  to  come 
back  in  less  than  live  minutes,  went  out  in  quest  of  the  per- 
son who  had  intrusted  ]\lr.  Toots  with  this  mysterious  mes- 
sage. Poor  Mr.  Toots,  left  to  himself,  lay  down  upon  the 
sofa,  little  thinking  who  had  reclined  there  last,  and,  gazing 
up  at  the  sky-light  and  resigning  himself  to  visions  of  Miss 
Dombey,  lost  all  heed  of  time  and  place. 

It  was  as  well  that  he  did  so  ;  for  although  the  captain 
was  not  gone  long,  he  was  gone  much  longer  than  he  had 
proposed.  When  he  came  back,  he  was  very  pale  indeed, 
and  greatly  agitated,  and  even  looked  as  if  he  had  been 
shedding  tears.  He  seemed  to  have  lost  the  faculty  of 
speech,  until  he  had  been  to  the  cupboard  and  taken  a  dram 
of  rum  from  the  case-bottle,  when  he  fetched  a  deep  breath, 
and  sat  down  in  a  chair  with  his  hand  before  his  face. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Toots,  kindly,  ''  I  hope  and  trust 
there's  nothing  v/rong  ?  " 

"  Thankee  my  lad,  not  a  bit,"  said  the  captain,  *'  Quite 
contrary." 

"  You  have  the  appearance  of  being  overcome,  Captain 
Gills,"  observed  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Whv,  my  lad,  I  am  took  aback,"  the  captain  admitted. 
''  I  am.'"' 

''  Is  there  any  thing  I  can  do,  Captain  Gills  ?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Toots.     '*  If  there  is,  make  use  of  me." 

The  captain  removed  his  hand  from  his  face,  looked  at 
him  with  a  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  tenderness,  and 
took  him  by  the  hand  and  shook  it  hard. 

"  No,  thankee,"  said  the  captain.  "  Nothing.  Only  I'll 
take  it  as  a  favor  if  you'll  part  company  for  the  present.  I 
believe,  brother,"  wringing  his  hand  again,  "  that,  after 
Wal'r,  and  on  a  different  model,  you're  as  good  a  lad  as  ever 
stepped." 

"  Upon  my  word  and  honor.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  Mr. 


674  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

Toots,  giving  the  captain's  hand  a  preliminary  slap  before 
shaking  it  again,  "  it's  delightful  to  me  to  possess  your  good 
opinion.     Thankee." 

"  And  bear  a  hand  and  cheer  up,"  said  the  captain,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  back.  "  What!  There's  more  than  one 
sweet  creetur  in  the  world!  " 

"  Not  to  me,  Captain  Gills,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  gravely. 
"  Not  to  me,  I  assure  you.  The  state  of  my  feeling  toward 
Miss  Dombey  is  of  that  unspeakable  description,  that  my 
heart  is  a  desert  island,  and  she  lives  in  it  alone.  I'm  getting 
more  used  up  every  day,  and  I'm  proud  to  be  so.  If  you 
could  see  my  legs  when  I  take  my  boots  off,  you'd  form 
some  idea  of  what  unrequited  affection  is.  I  have  been 
prescribed  bark,  but  I  don't  take  it,  for  I  don't  wish  to  have 
any  tone  given  to  my  constitution.  I'd  rather  not.  This, 
however,  is  forbidden  ground.     Captain  Gills,  good-by  !  " 

Captain  Cuttle  cordially  reciprocating  the  warmth  of  Mr. 
Toots's  farewell,  locked  the  door  behind  him,  and  shaking 
his  head  with  the  remarkable  expression  of  pity  and  tender- 
ness as  he  had  regarded  him  with  before,  went  up  to  see  if 
Florence  wanted  him. 

There  was  an  entire  change  in  the  captain's  face  as  he 
went  up-stairs.  He  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief, 
and  he  polished  the  bridge  of  his  nose  with  his  sleeve  as  he 
had  done  already  that  morning,  but  his  face  was  absolutely 
changed.  Now,  he  might  have  been  thought  supremely 
happy  ;  now,  he  might  have  been  thought  sad;  but  the  kind 
of  gravity  that  sat  upon  his  features  was  quite  new  to  them, 
and  was  as  great  an  improvement  to  them  as  if  they  had 
undergone  some  sublimating  process. 

He  knocked  softly,  with  his  hook,  at  Florence's  door, 
twice  or  thrice;  but,  receiving  no  answer,  ventured  first  to 
peep  in,  and  then  to  enter;  emboldened  to  take  the  latter 
step,  perhaps,  by  the  familiar  recognition  of  Diogenes,  who, 
stretched  upon  the  ground  by  the  side  of  her  couch,  wagged 
his  tail,  and  winked  his  eyes  at  the  captain,  without  being  at 
the  trouble  of  getting  up. 

She  was  sleeping  lieavily,  and  moaning  in  her  sleep;  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  with  a  perfect  awe  of  her  youth  and  beauty, 
and  her  sorrow,  raised  her  head  and  adjusted  the  coat  that 
had  covered  her,  where  it  had  fallen  off,  and  darkened  the 
window  a  little  more  that  she  might  sleep  on,  and  crept  out 
again,  and  took  his  post  of  watch  upon  the  stairs.  All  this, 
with  a  touch  and  tread  as  light  as  Florence's  own. 


"when  he    had    filled  his  pipe    ts  an    absolute  reverie  of    satisfaction, 
tlorence  lighted  it  for  him."  •        ,    -    ,  , 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  675 

Long  may  it  remain  in  this  mixed  world  a  point  not  easy 
of  decision,  which  is  the  more  beautiful  evidence  of  the 
Almighty's  goodness — the  delicate  fingers  that  are  formed 
for  sensitiveness  and  sympathy  of  touch,  and  made  to  minis- 
ter to  pain  and  grief,  or  the  rough  hard  Captain  Cuttle  hand, 
that  the  heart  teaches,  guides,  and  softens  in  a  moment! 

Florence  slept  upon  her  couch,  forgetful  of  her  home- 
lessness  and  orphanage,  and  Captain  Cuttle  vratched  upon 
the  stairs.  A  louder  sob  or  moan  brought  him  sometimes  to 
her  door;  but  by  degrees  she  slept  more  peacefully,  and  the 
captain's  watch  was  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER   XLIX. 

THE    MIDSHIPMAN    MAKES    A    DISCOVERY. 

It  was  long  before  Florence  awoke.  The  day  was  in  its 
prime,  the  day  was  in  its  wane,  and  still,  uneasy  in  mind  and 
body,  she  slept  on;  unconscious  of  her  strange  bed,  of  the 
noise  and  turmoil  in  the  street,  and  of  the  light  that  shone 
outside  of  the  shaded  window.  Perfect  unconsciousness  ot 
what  had  happened  in  the  home  that  existed  no  more,  even 
the  deep  slumber  of  exhaustion  could  not  produce.  Some 
undefined  and  mournful  recollection  of  it,  dozing  uneasily 
but  never  sleeping,  pervaded  all  her  rest.  A  dull  sorrow, 
like  a  half -lulled  sense  of  pain,  was  always  present  to  her  ; 
and  her  pale  cheek  was  often er  wet  with  tears  than  the 
honest  captain,  softly  putting  in  his  head  from  time  to  time 
at  the  half-closed  door,  could  have  desired  to  see  it. 

The  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west,  and,  glancing  out  of 
a  red  mist,  pierced  with  its  rays  opposite  loop-holes  and 
pieces  of  fret-work  in  the  spires  of  city  churches,  as  if  with 
golden  arrows  that  struck  through  and  through  them — and 
far  away  athwart  the  river  and  its  flat  banks,  it  was  gleaming 
like  a  path  of  fire — and  out  at  sea  it  was  irradiating  sails  of 
ships — and  looked  toward,  from  quiet  church-yards,  upon 
hill-tops  in  the  country,  it  was  steeping  distant  prospects  in  a 
flush  and  glow  that  seemed  to  mingle  earth  and  sky  together 
in  one  glorious  suffusion — when  Florence,  opening  her  heavy 
eyes,  lay  at  first,  looking  without  interest  or  recognition  at 
the  unfamiliar  walls  around  her,  and  listening  in  the  same 
regardless  manner  to  the  noises  in  the  street.     But  presently 


676  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

she  started  up  upon  her  couch,  gazed  round  with  a  surprised 
and  vacant  look,  and  recollected  all. 

"  My  pretty,"  said  the  captain,  knocking  at  the  door, 
"what  cheer  !  " 

"  Dear  friend,"  cried  Florence,  hurrying  to  him,  "  is  it 
you  ?  " 

The  cg»ptain  felt  so  much  pride  in  the  name,  and  was  so 
pleased  by  the  the  gleam  of  pleasure  in  her  face,  when  she 
saw  him,  that  he  kissed  his  hook,  by  way  of  reply,  in  speech- 
less gratification 

"  What  cheer,  bright  di'mond  !  "  said  the  captain. 

"  I  have  surely  slept  very  long,"  returned  Florence.  ''When 
did  I  come  here  ?     Yesterday  ?  " 

"  This  here  blessed  day,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Has  there  been  no  night  ?  Is  it  still  day  ? "  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

"  Getting  on  for  evening  now,  my  pretty,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, drawing  back  the  curtain  of  the  window.     "  See  !  " 

Florence,  with  her  hand  upon  the  captain's  arm  so  sorrow- 
ful and  timid,  and  the  captain  with  his  rough  face  and 
burly  figure,  so  quietly  protective  of  her,  stood  in  the 
rosy  light  of  the  bright  evening  sky,  without  saying  a  word. 
However  strange  the  form  of  speech  into  which  he  might 
have  fashioned  the  feeling,  if  he  had  had  to  give  it  utterance, 
the  captain  felt,  as  sensibly  as  the  most  eloquent  of  men 
could  have  done,  that  there  was  something  in  the  tranquil 
time  and  in  its  softened  beauty  that  would  make  the 
wounded  heart  of  Florence  overflow  ;  and  that  it  was  better 
that  such  tears  should  have  their  way.  So  not  a  word  spake 
Captain  Cuttle.  But  when  he  felt  his  arm  clasped  closer, 
and  when  he  felt  the  lonely  head  come  nearer  to  it,  and 
lay  itself  against  his  homely  coarse  blue  sleeve,  he  pressed 
it  gently  with  his  rugged  hand,  and  understood  it,  and  was 
understood. 

"  Better  now,  my  pretty  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  Cheerily, 
cheerily  ;  I'll  go  down  below,  and  get  some  dinner  ready. 
Will  you  come  down  of  your  own  self,  afterward,  pretty,  or 
shall  Ed'ard  Cuttle  come  and  fetch  you  ?  " 

As  Florence  assured  him  that  she  was  quite  able  to  walk 
down-stairs,  the  captain,  though  evidently  doubtful  of  his 
own  hospitality  in  permitting  it,  left  her  to  do  so,  and  imme- 
diately set  about  roasting  a  fowl  at  the  fire  in  the  little  parlor. 
To  achieve  his  cookery  with  the  greatest  skill,  he  pulled  off 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  677 

his  coat,  tucked  up  his  wristbands,  and  put  on  his  glazed 
hat,  without  which  assistant  he  never  applied  himself  to  any 
nice  or  difficult  undertaking. 

After  cooling  her  aching  head  and  burning  face  in  the 
fresh  water  which  the  captain's  care  had  provided  for  her 
while  she  slept,  Florence  went  to  the  little  mirror  to  bind  up 
her  disordered  hair.  Then  she  knew — in  a  moment,  for  she 
shunned  it  instantly — that  on  her  breast  there  was  the  dark- 
ening mark  of  an  angry  hand. 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  the  sight  ;  she  was  ashamed 
and  afraid  of  it  ;  but  it  moved  her  to  no  anger  against  him. 
Homeless  and  fatherless,  she  forgave  him  every  thing  ; 
hardly  thought  that  she  had  need  to  forgive  him,  or  that  she 
did  ;  but  she  fled  from  the  idea  of  him  as  she  had  fled  from 
the  reality,  and  he  was  utterly  gone  and  lost.  There  was 
no  such  being  in  the  world. 

What  to  do,  or  where  to  live,  Florence — poor  inexpe- 
rienced girl  ! — could  not  yet  consider.  She  had  indistinct 
dreams  of  finding,  a  long  way  off,  some  little  sisters  to 
instruct,  who  would  be  gentle  with  her,  and  to  whom,  under 
some  feignf d  name,  she  might  attach  herself,  and  who  would 
grow  up  in  their  happy  home,  and  marry,  and  be  good  to 
their  old  governess,  and  perhaps  intrust  her,  in  time,  with 
the  education  of  their  own  daughters.  And  she  thought 
how  strange  and  sorrowful  it  would  be,  thus  to  become  a 
gray-haired  woman,  carrying  her  secret  to  the  grave,  when 
Florence  Dombey  was  forgotten.  But  it  was  all  dim  and 
clouded  to  her  now.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  no  father 
upon  earth,  and  she  said  so,  many  times,  with  her  suppliant 
head  hidden  from  all  but  her  Father  who  was  in  heaven. 

Her  little  stock  of  money  amounted  to  but  a  few  guineas. 
With  a  part  of  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to  buy  some 
clothes,  for  she  had  none  but  those  she  wore.  She  was 
too  desolate  to  think  how  soon  her  money  would  be  gone — 
too  much  a  child  in  worldly  matters  to  be  greatly  troubled 
on  that  score  yet,  even  if  her  other  trouble  had  been  less. 
She  tried  to  calm  her  thoughts  and  stay  her  tears  ;  to  quiet 
the  hurry  in  her  throbbing  head,  and  bring  herself  to  believe 
that  what  had  happened  were  but  the  events  of  a  few  hours 
ago,  instead  of  weeks  or  months,  as  they  appeared  ;  and 
went  down  to  her  kind  protector. 

The  captain  had  spread  the  cloth  with  great  care,  and 
was  making  some  egg-sauce  in  a  little  saucepan  :  basting  the 
fowl  from   time  to    time  during  the  process  with   a   strong 


678  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

interest,  as  it  turned  and  browned  on  a  string  before  the  fire. 
Having  propped  Florence  up  with  cushions  on  the  sofa,  which 
was  already  wheeled  into  a  warm  corner  for  her  greater  com- 
fort, the  captain  pursued  his  cooking  with  extraordinary 
skill,  making  hot  gravy  in  a  second  little  saucepan,  boiling 
a  handful  of  potatoes  in  a  third,  never  forgetting  the  egg- 
sauce  in  the  first,  and  making  an  impartial  round  of  basting 
and  stirring  with  the  most  useful  of  spoons  every  minute. 
Besides  these  cares,  the  captain  had  to  keep  his  eye  on  a 
diminutive  frying  pan,  in  which  some  sausages  were  hissing 
and  bubbling  in  a  most  musical  manner  ;  and  there  was 
never  such  a  radiant  cook  as  the  captain  looked,  in  the 
height  and  heat  of  these  functions  ;  it  being  impossible  to 
say  whether  his  face  or  his  glazed  hat  shone  the  brighter. 

The  dinner  being  at  length  quite  ready,  Captain  Cuttle 
dished  and  served  it  up,  with  no  less  dexterity  than  he  had 
cooked  it.  He  then  dressed  for  dinner,  by  taking  off  his 
glazed  hat  and  putting  on  his  coat.  That  done,  he  wheeled 
the  table  close  against  Florence  on  the  sofa,  said  grace, 
unscrewed  his  hook,  screwed  his  fork  into  its  place,  and  did 
the  honors  of  the  table. 

"  My  lady  lass,"  said  the  captain,  "  cheer  up,  and  try  to  eat 
a  deal.  Stand  by,  my  deary!  Liver  wing  it  is.  Sarse  it  is.  Sas- 
sage  it  is.  And  potato!  "  all  which  the  captain  ranged  sym- 
metrically on  a  plate,  and  pouring  hot  gravy  on  the  whole 
with  the  useful  spoon,  set  before  his  cherished  guest. 

"  The  whole  row  o'  dead  lights  is  up,  for'ard,  lady  lass," 
observed  the  captain,  encouragingly,  "  and  every  think  is 
made  snug.  Try  and  pick  a  bit,  my  pretty.  If  Wal'r  was 
here — " 

''  Ah  !  If  I  had  him  for  my  brother  now  ! "  cried 
Florence. 

"  Don't  !  don't  take  on,  my  pretty  !  "  said  the  captain, 
"  awast  to  obleege  me  !  He  was  your  nat'ral  born  friend 
like,  warn't  he,  pet  ? " 

Florence  had  no  words  to  answer  with.  She  only  said, 
*'  Oh  dear,  dear  Paul  !  oh,  Walter  !  " 

"  The  wery  planks  she  walked  on,"  murmured  the  captain, 
looking  at  her  drooping  face,  ''  was  as  high  esteemed  by 
Wal'r,  as  the  water  brooks  is  by  the  hart  which  never  rejices! 
I  see  him  now,  the  wery  day  as  he  was  rated  on  them  Dom- 
bey  books,  a-speaking  of  her  with  his  face  a-glistening  with 
doo — leastways  with  his  modest  sentiments — like  a  new 
blown  rose,  at  dmner.     V/eil,  well  I     It  our  poor  Wal'r  was 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  679 

here,  my  lady  lass — or  if  he  could  be — for  he's  drownded, 
ain't  he  ?" 

"•^^lorence  shook  her  head. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  drownded,"  said  the  captain,  soothingly;  "  as  I 
was  saying,  if  he  could  be  here  he'd  beg  and  pray  of  you, 
my  precious,  to  pick  a  leetle  bit,  with  a  look-out  for  your 
own  sweet  health.  Whereby,  hold  your  own,  my  lady  lass, 
as  if  it  was  for  Wal'r's  sake,  and  lay  your  pretty  head  to  the 
wind." 

Florence  essayed  to  eat  a  morsel,  for  the  captain's 
pleasure.  The  captain,  meanwhile,  wlio  seemed  to  have 
quite  forgotten  his  own  dinner,  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork, 
and  drew  his  chair  to  the  sofa. 

''  Wal'r  was  a  trim  lad,  warn't  he,  precious  ?"  said  the  cap- 
tain, after  sitting  for  some  time  silently  rubbing  his  chin, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  "  and  a  brave  lad,  and  a  good 
lad  ?" 

Florence  tearfully  assented. 

''  And  he's  drownded,  beauty,  ain't  he  ?"  said  the  captain, 
in  a  soothing  voice. 

Florence  could  not  but  assent  again. 

"  He  was  older  than  you,  my  lady  lass,"  })ursued  the  cap- 
tain, "but  you  was  like  two  children  together,  at  first; 
warn't  you  ?" 

Florence  answered  "Yes." 

"  And  Wal'r's  drownded,"  said  the  captain.     "  Ain't  he  ?" 

The  repetition  of  his  inquiry  was  a  curious  source  of  con- 
solation, but  it  seemed  to  be  one  to  Captain  Cuttle,  for  he 
came  back  to  it  again  and  again.  Florence,  fain  to  push 
from  her  her  untasted  dinner,  and  to  lie  back  on  her  sofa, 
gave  him  her  hand,  feeling  that  she  had  disappointed  him, 
though  truly  wishing  to  have  pleased  him  after  all  his 
trouble,  but  he  held  it  in  his  own  (which  shook  as  he  held 
it),  and  appearing  to  have  quite  forgotten  all  about  the 
dinner  and  her  want  of  appetite,  went  on  growling  at 
intervals,  in  a  ruminating  tone  of  sympathy,  "  Poor  Wal'r. 
Ay,  ay  !  Drownded.  Ain't  he  ?"  And  always  waited  for 
her  answer,  in  which  the  great  point  of  these  singular 
reflections  appeared  to  consist. 

The  fowl  and  sausages  were  cold,  and  the  gravy  and  the 
egg-sauce  stagnant,  before  the  captain  remembered  that  they 
were  on  the  board,  and  fell  too  with  the  assistance  of 
Diogenes,  whose  united  efforts  quickly  dispatched  the 
banquet.     The   captain's   delight  and  wonder  at   th«  quick 


6So  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

housewifery  of  Florence  in  assisting  to  clear  the  table, 
arrange  the  parlor,  and  sweep  up  the  hearth — only  to  be 
equaled  by  the  fervency  of  his  protest  when  she  began  to 
assist  him — were  gradually  raised  to  that  degree,  that  at  last 
he  could  not  choose  but  do  nothing  himself,  and  stand  look- 
ing at  her  as  if  she  were  some  fairy,  daintily  performing 
these  offices  for  him;  the  red  rim  on  his  forehead  glowing 
again,  in  his  unspeakable  admiration. 

But  when  Florence,  taking  down  his  pipe  from  the  mantle- 
shelf  gave  it  into  his  hand,  and  entreated  him  to  smoke  it, 
the  good  captain  was  so  bewildered  by  her  attention  that  he 
held  it  as  if  he  had  never  held  a  pipe  in  all  his  life.  Like- 
wise, when  Florence,  looking  into  the  little  cupboard,  took 
out  the  case-bottle  and  mixed  a  perfect  glass  of  grog  for 
him,  unasked,  and  set  it  at  his  elbow,  his  ruddy  nose  turned 
pale,  he  felt  himself  so  graced  and  honored.  When  he  had 
filled  his  pipe  in  an  absolute  reverie  of  satisfaction,  Florence 
lighted  it  for  him — the  captain  having  no  power  to  object, 
or  to  prevent  her — and  resuming  her  place  on  the  old  sofa, 
looked  at  him  with  a  smile  so  loving  and  so  grateful,  a  smile 
that  showed  him  so  plainly  how  her  forlorn  heart  turned  to 
him,  as  her  face  did,  through  grief,  that  the  smoke  of  his 
pipe  got  into  the  captain's  throat  and  made  him  cough, 
and  got  into  the  captain's  eyes,  and  made  them  blink  and 
water. 

The  manner  in  which  the  captain  tried  to  make  believe 
that  the  cause  of  these  effects  lay  hidden  in  the  pipe  itself, 
and  the  way  in  which  he  looked  into  the  bowl  for  it,  and  not 
finding  it  there,  pretended  to  blow  it  out  of  the  stem,  was 
wonderfully  pleasant.  The  pipe  soon  getting  into  better 
condition,  he  fell  into  that  state  of  repose  becoming  a  good 
smoker;  but  he  sat  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Florence,  and, 
with  a  beaming  placidity  not  to  be  described,  and  stopping 
every  now  and  then  to  discharge  a  little  cloud  from  his  lips, 
slowly  puffed  it  forth,  as  if  it  were  a  scroll  coming  out  of  his 
mouth,  bearing  the  legend  "  Poor  Wal'r,  ay,  ay.  Drownded, 
ain't  he  ?"  after  which  he  would  resume  his  smoking  with  in- 
finite gentleness. 

Unlike  as  they  were  externally — and  there  could  scarcely  be 
a  more  decided  contrast  than  between  Florence  in  her  deli- 
cate youth  and  beauty,  and  Captain  Cuttle  with  his  knobby 
face,  his  great  broad  weather-beaten  person,  and  his  gruff 
voice — in  simple  innocence  of  the  world's  ways  and  the 
world's  perplexities  and  dangers,  they  were  nearly  on  a  level. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  68i 

No  child  could  have  surpassed  Captain  Cuttle  in  inexperience 
of  every  thing  but  wind  and  weather;  in  simplicity,  credulity, 
and  generous  trustfulness.  Faith,  hope  and  charity,  shared 
his  whole  nature  among  them.  An  odd  sort  of  romance, 
perfectly  unimaginative,  yet  perfectly  unreal,  and  subject  to 
no  considerations  of  worldly  prudence  or  practicability,  was 
the  only  partner  they  had  in  his  character.  As  the  captain 
sat  and  smoked,  and  looked  at  Florence,  God  knows  what 
impossible  pictures,  in  v/hich  she  was  the  principal  figure, 
presented  themselves  to  his  mind.  Equally  vague  and  un- 
certain, though  not  so  sanguine,  w^ere  her  own  thoughts 
of  the  life  before  her;  and  even  as  her  tears  made  prismatic 
colors  in  the  light  she  gazed  at,  so,  through  her  new  and 
heavy  grief,  she  already  saw  a  rainbow  faintly  shining  in  the 
far-off  sky.  A  wandering  princess  and  a  good  monster  in  a 
story-book  might  have  sat  by  the  fireside,  and  talked  as 
Captain  Cuttle  and  poor  Florence  thought — and  not  have 
looked  very  much  unlike  them. 

The  captain  was  not  troubled  with  the  faintest  idea  of  any 
difficulty  in  retaining  Florence,  or  of  any  responsibility 
thereby  incurred.  Having  put  up  the  shutters  and  locked 
the  door,  he  was  quite  satisfied  on  this  head.  If  she  had 
been  a  ward  in  chancery,  it  would  have  made  no  difference 
at  all  to  Captain  Cuttle.  He  was  the  last  man  in  the  world 
to  be  troubled  by  any  such  considerations. 

So  the  captain  smoked  his  pipe  very  comfortably,  and 
Florence  and  he  meditated  after  their  own  manner.  When 
the  pipe  was  out,  they  had  some  tea;  and  then  Florence 
entreated  him  to  take  her  to  some  neighboring  shop,  where 
she  could  buy  the  few  necessaries  she  immediately  wanted. 
It  being  quite  dark,  the  captain  consented;  peeping  carefully 
out  first,  as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  in  his  time  of  hiding 
from  Mrs.  MacStinger;  and  arming  himself  with  his  large 
stick,  in  case  of  an  appeal  to  arms  being  rendered  necessary 
by  any  unforeseen  circumstance. 

The  pride  Captain  Cuttle  had  in  giving  his  arm  to 
Florence,  and  escorting  her  some  two  or  three  hundred 
yards,  keeping  a  bright  lookout  all  the  time,  and  attracting 
the  attention  of  every  one  who  passed  them,  by  his  great 
vigilance  and  numerous  precautions,  w^as  extreme.  Arrived 
at  the  shop,  the  captain  felt  it  a  point  of  delicacy  to  retire 
during  the  making  of  the  purchases,  as  they  were  to  consist 
■  of  wearing  apparel  ;  but  he  previously  deposited  his  tin 
canister  on  the    counter,  and  informing  the  young  lady  of 


682  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  establishment  that  it  contained  fourteen  pound  two,  re^ 
quested  her,  in  case  that  amount  of  property  should  not  be 
sufficient  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his  niece's  Httle  outfit — - 
Sit  the  word  "  niece,"  he  bestowed  a  most  significant  look  od 
Florence,  accompanied  with  pantonime,  expressive  of  sagac- 
ity and  mystery — to  have  the  goodness  to  "  sing  out,"'  and 
he  would  make  up  the  difference  from  his  pocket.  Casually 
consulting  his  big  watch,  as  a  deep  means  of  dazzling  the 
establishment,  and  impressing  it  with  a  sense  of  property, 
the  captain  then  kissed  his  hook  to  his  niece,  and  retired 
outside  the  window,  where  it  was  a  choice  sight  to  see  his 
great  face  looking  in  from  time  to  time  among  the  silks  and 
ribbons,  with  an  obvious  misgiving  that  Florence  had  been 
spirited  away  by  a  backdoor. 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Florence,  when  she  came  out 
with  a  parcel,  the  size  of  v/hich  greatly  disappointed  the 
captain,  who  had  expected  to  see  a  porter  following  with  a 
bale  of  goods,  "  I  don't  want  this  money,  indeed.  I  have 
not  spent  any  of  it.     I  have  money  of  my  own." 

"  My  lady  lass,"  returned  the  baffled  captain,  looking 
straight  down  the  street  before  them,  "  take  care  on  it  for 
me,  will  you  be  so  good,  till  such  time  as  I  ask  ye  for  it  ? " 

"  May  I  put  it  back  in  its  usual  place,"  said  Florence, 
"  and  keep  it  there  ? " 

The  captain  was  not  at  all  gratified  by  this  proposal,  but 
he  answered,  "  Ay,  ay,  put  it  anywheres,  my  lady  lass,  so 
long  as  you  know  where  to  find  it  again.  It  ain't  o'  no  use 
to  mt,"  said  the  captain.  "I  wonder  I  haven't  chucked  it 
away  afore  now." 

The  captain  was  quite  disheartened  for  the  moment,  but 
he  revived  at  the  first  touch  of  Florence's  arm,  and  they 
returned  with  the  same  precautions  as  they  had  come  ;  the 
captain  opening  the  door  of  the  little  midshipman's  berth, 
and  diving  in,  with  a  suddenness  which  his  great  practice 
only  could  have  taught  him.  During  Florence's  si  amber  in 
the  morning,  he  had  engaged  the  daughter  of  an  elderly  lady, 
who  usually  sat  under  a  blue  umbrella  in  Leadenhall  market 
selling  poultry,  to  come  and  put  her  room  in  order,  and  ren- 
der her  any  little  services  she  required  ;  and  this  damsel  now 
appearing,  Florence  found  every  thing  about  her  as  conven- 
ient and  orderly,  if  not  as  handsome,  as  in  the  terrible  dream 
she  had  once  called  hom.e. 

When  they  were  alone  again,  the  captain  insisted  on  her 
eating  a  slice  of   dry  toast,  and  drinking  a  glass  of  spiced 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  683 

negus  (which  he  made  to  perfection)  ;  and,  encouraging  her 
with  every  kind  word  and  inconsequential  quotation  he  could 
possibly  think  of,  led  her  up-stairs  to  her  bedroom.  But  he 
too  had  something  on  his  mind,  and  was  not  easy  in  his 
manner. 

"  Good-night,  dear  heart,"  said  Captain  Cuttle  to  her  at 
her  chamber-door. 

Florence  raised  her  lips  to  his  face,  and  kissed 
him. 

At  any  other  time  the  captain  would  have  been  over- 
balanced by  such  a  token  of  her  affection  and  gratitude  ; 
but  now,  although  he  was  very  sensible  of  it,  he  looked  in 
her  face  with  even  more  uneasiness  than  he  had  testified 
before,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  leave  her. 

*'  Poor  Wal'r  !  "  said  the  captain. 

"  Poor,  poor  Walter  !  "  sighed  Florence. 

"  Drownded,  ain't  he  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

Florence  shook  her  head,  and  sighed. 

"  Good-night,  my  iady  lass  !  "  said  Captain  Cuttle,  put- 
ting out  his  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear,  kind  friend !  " 

But  the  captain  lingered  still. 

*'  Is  any  thing  the  matter,  dear  Captain  Cuttle  ?  "  said 
Florence,  easily  alarmed  in  her  then  state  of  mind.  "  Have 
you  any  thing  to  tell  me  ? " 

"  To  tell  you,  lady  lass  !  "  replied  the  captain,  meeting  her 
eyes  in  confusion.  "  No,  no  ;  what  should  I  have  to  tell 
you,  pretty  !  You  don't  expect  as  I've  got  any  thing  good 
to  tell  you,  sure  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  said  Florence,  shaking  her  head. 

The  captain  looked  at  her  wistfully,  and  repeated 
*'  No  " — still  lingering,  and  still  showing  embarrass- 
ment. 

"  Poor  Wal'r  !  "  said  the  captain.  "  My  Wal'r,  as  I  used 
to  call  you  !  Old  Sol  Gills's  nevy  !  Welcome  to  all  as 
knowed  you,  as  the  flowers  in  May  !  Where  are  you  got  to, 
brave  boy  !     Drownded,  ain't  he  ?  " 

Concluding  his  apostrophe  with  this  abrupt  appeal  to 
Florence,  the  captain  bade  her  good-night,  and  descended 
the  stairs,  while  Florence  remained  at  the  top,  holding  the 
candle  out  to  light  him  down.  .  He  was  lost  in  the  troscurity, 
and,  judging  from  the  sound  of  his  receding  footsteps,  was 
in  the  act  of  turning  into  the  little  parlor,  when  his  head 
and  shoulders  unexpectedly  emerged  again,  as  from  the  deep 


684  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

apparently  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  repeat,  "  Drownded, 
ain't  he,  pretty  ?  "  For  when  he  had  said  that  in  a  tone  of 
tender  condolence,  he  disappeared. 

Florence  was  very  sorry  that  she  should  unwittingly 
though  naturally,  have  awakened  these  associations  in  the 
mind  of  her  protector,  by  taking  refuge  there  ;  and  sitting 
down  before  the  little  table  where  the  captain  had  arranged 
the  telescope  and  song-book,  and  those  other  rarities, 
thought  of  Walter,  and  of  all  that  was  connected  with  him 
in  the  past,  until  she  could  have  almost  wished  to  lie  down 
on  her  bed  and  fade  away.  But  in  her  lonely  yearning  to 
the  dead  whom  she  had  loved,  no  thought  of  home — no 
possibility  of  going  back — no  presentation  of  it  as  yet  exist- 
ing or  as  sheltering  her  father — once  entered  her  thoughts. 
She  had  seen  the  murder  done.  In  the  last  lingering  aspect 
in  which  she  had  cherished  him  through  so  much,  he  had  been 
torn  out  of  her  heart,  defaced,  and  slain.  The  thought  of  it 
was  so  appalling  to  her,  that  she  covered  her  eyes,  and 
shrunk  trembling  from  the  least  remembrance  of  the  deed, 
or  of  the  cruel  hand  that  did  it.  If  her  fond  heart  could 
have  held  his  image  after  that,  it  must  have  broken  ;  but  it 
could  not  ;  and  the  void  was  filled  with  a  wild  dread  that 
fled  from  all  confronting  with  its  shattered  fragments — with 
such  a  dread  as  could  have  risen  out  of  nothing  but  the 
depths  of  such  a  love,  so  wronged. 

She  dared  not  look  into  the  glass  ;  for  the  sight  of  the 
darkening  mark  upon  her  bosom  made  her  afraid  of  herself, 
as  if  she  bore  about  her  something  wicked.  She  covered  it 
up,  with  a  hasty  faltering  hand,  and  in  the  dark  ;  and  laid 
her  weary  head  down,  weeping. 

The  captain  did  not  go  to  bed  for  a  long  time.  He  walked 
to  and  fro  in  the  shop  and  in  the  little  parlor  for  a  full  hour, 
and,  appearing  to  have  composed  himself  by  that  exercise, 
sat  down  with  a  grave  and  thoughtful  face,  and  read  out  of 
a  prayer-book  the  forms  of  prayer  appointed  to  be  used  at 
sea.  These  were  not  easily  disposed  of  ;  the  good  captain 
being  a  mighty  slow,  gruff  reader,  and  frequently  stopping  at 
a  hard  word  to  give  himself  such  encouragement  as  *'  Now, 
my  lad  !  With  a  will  !  "  or,  "  Steady,  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  steady!  ". 
which  had  a  great  effect  in  helping  him  out  of  any  difficulty. 
Moreover,  his  spectacles  greatly  interfered  with  his  powers 
of  vision.  But  notwithstanding  these  drawbacks,  the  captain, 
being  heartily  in  earnest,  read  the  service  to  the  very  last 
line,  and  with  genuine  feeling  too  ;  and  approving  of  it  very 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  685 

much  when  he  had  done,  turned  in  under  the  counter  (but 
not  before  he  had  been  up-stairs,  and  listened  at  Florence's 
door),  with  a  serene  breast,  and  a  most  benevolent  visage. 

The  captain  turned  out  several  times  in  the  course  of  the 
night  to  assure  himself  that  his  ch-arge  was  resting  quietly  ; 
and  once,  at  day-break,  found  that  she  was  awake  ;  for  she 
called  to  know  if  it  were  he,  on  hearing  footsteps  near  her 
door. 

"Yes,  my  lady  lass,"  replied  the  captain,  in  a  growling 
whisper,     "Are  you  all  right,  di'mond  ?" 

Florence  thanked  him,  and  said  "Yes." 

The  captain  could  not  lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity  of 
applying  his  mouth  to  the  key-hole,  and  calling  through  it, 
like  a  hoarse  breeze,  "  Poor  Wal'r  !  Drownded,  ain't  he  ?  " 
After  which  he  withdrew,  and  turning  in  again,  slept  till 
seven  o'clock. 

Nor  was  he  free  from  his  uneasy  and  embarrassed  manner 
all  that  day  ;  though  Florence,  being  busy  with  her  needle 
in  the  little  parlor,  was  more  calm  and  tranquil  than  she  had 
been  on  the  day  preceding.  Almost  always  when  she  raised 
her  eyes  from  her  work,  she  observed  the  captain  looking  at 
her,  and  thoughtfully  stroking  his  chin  ;  and  he  so  often 
hitched  his  arm-chair  close  to  her,  as  if  he  were  going  to  say 
something  very  confidential,  and  hitched  it  away  again,  as 
not  being  able  to  make  up  his  mind  how  to  begin,  that  in 
the  course  of  the  day  he  cruised  completely  round  the  parlor 
in  that  frail  bark,  and  more  than  once  went  ashore  against 
the  wainscot  or  the  closet  door  in  a  very  distressed  condition. 

It  was  not  until  the  twilight  that  Captain  Cuttle,  fairly 
dropping  anchor  at  last  by  the  side  of  Florence,  began  to 
talk  at  all  connectedly.  But  when  the  light  of  the  fire  was 
shining  on  the  walls  and  ceiling  of  the  little  room,  and  on 
the  tea-board,  and  the  cups  and  saucers  that  were  ranged 
upon  the  table,  and  on  her  calm  face  turned  toward  the 
flame,  and  reflecting  it  in  the  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  the 
captain  broke  a  long  silence  thus  : 

"  You  never  was  at  sea,  my  own  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Florence. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  captain,  reverentially  ;  "  it's  a  almighty 
element.  There's  v.-onders  in  the  deep,  my  pretty.  Think 
on  it  when  the  winds  is  roaring  and  the  waves  is  rowling. 
Think  on  it  when  the  stormy  nights  is  so  pitch-dark,"  said 
the  captain,  solemnly  holding  up  Ins  hook,  "  as  you  can't 
see  your  hand  afore  you,  excepting  when  the  wiwid  lightning 


686  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

reweals  the  same  ;  and  when  you  drive,  drive,  drive  through 
the  storm  and  dark,  as  if  you  was  a-driving,  head  on,  to  the 
world  without  end,  evermore,  amen,  and  when  found  making 
a  note  of.  Them's  the  times,  my  beauty,  when  a  man  may 
say  to  his  messmate  (previously  a-overhauling  of  the  wol- 
lume),  '  A  stiff  nor-wester's  blowing,  Bill  ;  hark,  don't  you 
hear  it  roar  ^^w  !  Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pitys  all  unhappy 
folks  ashore  now  ! '  "  Which  quotation,  as  particularly 
applicable  to  the  terrors  of  the  ocean,  the  captain  delivered 
in  a  most  impressive  manner,  concluding  with  a  sonorous 
"  Stand  by  !  " 

*'  Were  you  ever  in  a  dreadful  storm  ? "  asked  Florence. 

"Why  ay,  my  lady  lass,  I've  seen  my  share  of  bad 
weather,"  said  the  captain,  tremulously  wiping  his  head, 
''  and  I've  had  my  share  of  knocking  about  ;  but — but  it 
ain't  of  myself  as  I  was  a  meaning  to  speak.  Our  dear  boy," 
drawing  closer  to  her,  ''  Wal'r,  darling,  as  was  drownded." 

The  captain  spoke  in  such  a  trembling  voice,  and  looked 
at  Florence  with  a  face  so  pale  and  agitated,  that  she  clung 
to  his  hand  in  affright. 

"  Your  face  is  changed,"  cried  Florence.  "  You  are 
altered  in  a  moment.  What  is  it  ?  Dear  Captain  Cuttle,  it 
turns  me  cold  to  see  you  !  " 

''  What  !  Lady  lass,"  returned  the  captain,  supporting 
her  with  his  hand,  "  don't  be  took  aback.  No,  no  !  All's 
well,  all's  well,  my  dear.  As  I  was  a-saying — Wal'r— he's — 
he's  drownded.     Ain't  he  ?  " 

Florence  looked  at  him  intently  ;  her  color  came  and 
went  ;  and  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  breast. 

"  There's  perils  and  dangers  on  the  deep,  my  beauty,"  said 
the  captain  ;  "  and  over  many  a  brave  ship,  and  many  and 
many  a  bould  heart,  the  secret  waters  has  closed  up,  and 
never  told  no  tales.  But  there's  escapes  upon  the  deep,  too, 
and  sometimes  one  man  out  of  a  score — ah  !  may  be  out  of 
a  hundred,  pretty — has  been  saved  by  the  mercy  of  God, 
and  come  home  after  being  given  over  for  dead,  and  told  of 
all  hands  lost.  I— I  know  a  story.  Heart's  Delight,"  stam- 
mered the  captain,  "  o'  this  natur,  as  was  told  to  me  once  ; 
and  being  on  this  here  tack,  and  you  and  me  sitting  alone 
by  the  fire,  may  be  you'd  like  to  hear  me  tell  it.  Would  you, 
deary  ? "  -  ^ 

Florence,  trembling  with  an  agitation  which  she  could  not 
control  or  understand     involuntarily  followed    his    glance, 

which  w§nt  behind  her  into  the  shop,  where  3.  lamp  was 


DOM«EY   AND   SON.  687 

burning.  The  instant  that  she  turned  her  head,  the  captain 
sprung  out  of  his  chair  and  interposed  his  hand. 

"  There's  nothing  there,  my  beauty,"  said  the  captain. 
*'  Don't  look  there." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  asked  Florence. 

The  captain  murmured  something  about  its  being  dull 
that  way,  and  about  the  fire  being  cheerful.  He  drew  the 
door  ajar,  which  had  been  standing  open  until  now,  and 
resumed  his  seat.  Florence  followed  him  with  her  eyes,  and 
looked  intently  in  his  face. 

"The  story  was  about  a  ship,  my  lady  lass,"  began  the 
captain,  "  as  sailed  out  of  Port  of  London,  with  a  fair  wind 
and  in  fair  weather,  bound  for — don't  be  took  aback,  my 
lady  lass,  she  was  only  out'ard-bound,  pretty,  only  out'ard- 
bound  !  " 

The  expression  of  Florence's  face  alarmed  the  captain, 
who  was  himself  very  hot  and  flurried,  and  showed  scarcely 
less  agitation  than  she  did. 

"  Shall  I  go  on,  beauty  ?  "  said  the  captain. 

*'  Yes,  yes,  pray  ! "  cried  Florence. 

The  captain  made  a  gulp  as  if  to  get  down  some- 
thing that  was  sticking  in  his  throat,  and  nervously  pro- 
ceeded : 

"  That  there  unfort'nate  ship  met  with  such  foul  weather 
out  at  sea  as  don't  blow  once  in  twenty  year,  my  darling.' 
There  was  hurricanes  ashore  as  tore  up  forests  and  blowed 
down  towns,  and  there  was  gales  at  sea  in  them  latitudes  as 
not  the  stoutest  wessel  ever  launched  could  live  in.  Day 
arter  day  that  there  unfort'nate  ship  behaved  noble,  I'm 
told,  and  did  her  duty  brave,  my  pretty,  but  at  one  blow 
a'most  her  bulwarks  was  stove  in,  her  masts  and  rudder 
carried  away,  her  best  men  swept  overboard,  and  she  left 
to  the  mercy  of  the  storm  as  hid  no  mercy,  but  blowed 
harder  and  harder  yet,  while  the  waves  dashed  over  her,  and 
beat  her  in,  and  everytime  they  come  a  thundering  at  her, 
broke  her  like  a  shell.  Every  black  spot  in  every  mount- 
ain of  water  that  rolled  away  was  a  bit  o'  the  ship's  life  or  a 
living  man,  and  so  she  went  to  pieces,  beauty,  and  no 
grass  will  never  grow  upon  the  graves  of  them  as  manned 
that  ship." 

"  They  were  not  all  lost  !  "  cried  Florence.  "  Some  were 
saved  I — Was  one  ?  " 

"  Aboard  o'  that  there  unfort'nate  wessel,"  said  the  cap- 
tain, rising  from  his  chair,  and  clenching  his  hand  with  pro- 


6S^  DOMBEY  AN1>  SON. 

digious  energy  and  exultation,  "  was  a  lad,  a  gallant  lad — as 
I've  heerd  tell — that  had  loved,  when  he  was  a  boy,  to  read 
and  talk  about  brave  actions  in  shipwrecks — I've  heerd  him! 
I've  heerd  him  ! — and  he  remembered  of  'em  in  his  hour  of 
need  ;  for  when  the  stoutest  hearts  and  oldest  hands  was 
hove  down,  he  was  firm  and  cheery.  It  warn't  the  want  of 
objects  to  like  and  love  ashore  that  gave  him  courage,  it 
was  his  nat'ral  mind.  I've  seen  it  in  his  face,  when  he  was 
no  more  than  a  child — ay,  many  a  time  ! — and  when  I 
thought  it  nothing  but  his  good  looks,  bless  him  !  " 

"  And  was  he  saved  !  "  cried  Florence.  *'  Was  he 
saved  ?  " 

"  That  brave  lad,"  said  the  captain — "  Look  at  me,  pretty! 
Don't  look  round — " 

Florence  had  hardly  power  to  repeat,  '*  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  there's  nothing  there,  my  deary,"  said  the  cap- 
tain. "  Don't  be  took  aback,  pretty  creetur  !  Don't,  for 
the  sake  of  Wal'r,  as  was  dear  to  all  on  us  !  That  there 
lad,"  said  the  captain,  *'  arter  working  with  the  best,  and 
standing  by  the  faint-hearted,  and  never  making  no  com- 
plaint nor  sign  of  fear,  and  keeping  up  a  spirit  in  all  hands 
that  made  'em  honor  him  as  if  he'd  been  a  admiral — that 
lad,  along  with  the  second  mate  and  one  seaman,  was 
left,  of  all  the  beatin'  hearts  that  went  aboard  that  ship, 
tlie  only  living  creeturs — lashed  to  a  fragment  of  the  wreck, 
and  driftin'  on  the  stormy  sea." 

"  Were  they  saved  ?"  cried  Florence. 

"  Days  and  nights  they  drifted  on  them  endless  waters," 
said  the  captain,  "  until  at  last —  No  !  Don't  look  that 
way,  pretty  ! — a  sail  bore  down  upon  'em,  and  they  was, 
by  the  Lord's  mercy,  took  aboard  ;  two  living  and  one 
dead." 

"  Which  of  them  was  dead  ?"  cried  Florence. 

"  Not  the  lad  I  speak  on,"  said  the  captain. 

"  Thank  God  !  oh  thank  God  !" 

"  Amen  !"  returned  the  captain,  hurriedly.  "  Don't  be 
took  aback  !  A  minute  more,  my  lady  lass  I  with  a  good 
heart ! — aboard  that  ship,  they  went  a  long  voyage,  right 
away  across  the  chart  (for  there  warn't  no  touching 
nowhere),  and  on  that  voyage  the  seaman  as  was  picked 
up  with  him  died.     But  he  was  spared,  and — " 

The  captain,  without  knowing  what  he  did,  had  cut  a  slice 
of  bread  from  the  loaf  and  put  it  on  his  hook  (which  was  his 
usual  toasting-fork),  on    which  he    now   held   it  to  the  fire  ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  689 

looking  behind  Florence   with   emotion   in  his   face,    and 
suffering  the  bread  to  blaze  and  burn  like  fuel. 

"Was  spared,"  repeated  Florence,  "  and — ?" 

"  And  come  home  in  that  ship,"  said  the  captain,  still  look- 
ing in  the  same  direction,  "and — don't  be  frightened, 
pretty — and  landed  ;  and  one  morning  come  cautiously  to 
his  own  door  to  take  a  observation,  knowing  that  his  friends 
would  think  him  drownded,when  he  sheered  off  at  the  unex- 
pected— " 

"  At  the  unexpected  barking  of  a  dog  ?  "  cried  Florence, 
quickly. 

"Yes,"  roared  the  captain.  "  Steady,  darling  !  courage  ! 
Don't  look  round  yet.     See  there  !  upon  the  wall  !  " 

There  was  the  shadow  of  a  man  upon  the  wall  close  to 
her.  She  started  up,  looked  round,  and  with  a  piercing  cry, 
saw  Walter  Gay  behind  her  ' 

She  had  no  thought  of  him  but  as  a  brother,  a  brother 
rescued  from  the  grave  ;  a  shipwrecked  brother  saved  and 
at  her  side  ;  and  rushed  into  his  arms.  In  all  the  world,  he 
seemed  to  be  her  hope,  her  comfort,  refuge,  natural  pro- 
tector. "  Take  care  of  Walter,  I  was  fond  of  Walter  !  " 
The  dear  remembrance  of  the  plaintive  voice  that  said  so 
rushed  upon  her  soul  like  music  in  the  night.  "  Oh  wel- 
come home,  dear  Walter  !  Welcome  to  this  stricken  breast !  " 
She  felt  the  words,  although  she  could  not  utter  them,  and 
held  him  in  her  pure  embrace. 

Captain  Cuttle,  in  a  fit  of  delirium,  attempted  to  wipe  his 
head  with  the  blackened  toast  upon  his  hook  ;  and  finding 
it  an  uncongenial  substance  for  the  purpose,  put  it  into  the 
crown  of  his  glazed  hat,  put  the  glazed  hat  on  with  some 
difficulty,  essayed  to  sing  a  verse  of  Lovely  Peg,  broke 
down  at  the  first  word,  and  retired  into  the  shop,  whence 
he  presently  came  back,  express,  with  a  face  all  flushed 
and  besmeared,  and  the  starch  completely  taken  out  of  his 
shirt-collar,  to  say  these  words  : 

"Wal'r,  my  lad,  here  is  a  little  bit  of  property  as  I 
should  wish  to  make  over,  jintly  !  " 

The  captain  hastily  produced  the  big  watch,  the  tea- 
spoons, the  sugar-tongs,  and  the  canister,  and  laying  them 
on  the  table,  swept  them  with  his  great  hand  into  Walter's 
hat ;  but  in  handing  that  singular  strong  box  to  Walter,  he 
was  so  overcome  again,  that  he  was  fain  to  make  another 
retreat  into  the  shop,  and  absent  himself  for  a  longer  space 
of  time  than  on  his  first  retirement. 


C)9o  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

But  Walter  sought  him  out,  and  brought  him  back  ;  and 
then  the  captain's  great  apprehension  was  that  Florence 
would  suffer  from  this  new  shock.  He  felt  it  so  earnestly, 
that  he  turned  quite  rational,  and  positively  interdicted  any 
further  allusion  to  Walter's  adventures  for  some  days  to 
come.  Captain  Cuttle  then  became  sufficiently  composed 
to  relieve  himself  of  the  toast  in  his  hat,  and  to  take  his 
place  at  the  tea-board  ;  but  finding  Walter's  grasp  upon 
his  shoulder  on  one  side,  and  Florence  whispering  her 
tearful  congratulations  on  the  other,  the  captain  suddenly 
bolted  again,  and  was  missing  for  a  good  ten  minutes. 

But  never  in  all  his  life  had  the  captain's  face  so  shone 
and  glistened  as  when  at  last  he  sat  stationary  at  the  tea- 
board,  looking  from  Florence  to  Walter,  and  from  Walter 
to  Florence.  Nor  was  this  effect  produced  or  at  all  height- 
ened by  the  immense  quantity  of  polishing  he  had 
administered  to  his  face  with  his  coat-sleeve  during  the  last 
half-hour.  It  was  solely  the  effect  of  his  internal  emotions. 
There  was  a  glory  and  delight  within  the  captain  that 
spread  itself  over  his  whole  visage,  and  made  a  perfect 
illumination  there. 

The  pride  with  which  the  captain  looked  upon  the 
bronzed  cheek  and  the  courageous  eyes  of  his  recovered 
boy  ;  with  which  he  saw  the  generous  fervor  of  his  youth, 
and  all  its  frank  and  hopeful  qualities,  shining  once  more  in 
the  fresh,  wholesome  manner,  and  the  ardent  face,  would 
have  kindled  something  of  this  light  in  his  countenance. 
The  admiration  and  sympathy  with  which  he  turned  his  eyes 
on  Florence,  whose  beauty,  grace,  and  innocence  could  have 
won  no  truer  or  more  zealous  champion  than  himself,  would 
have  had  an  equal  influence  upon  him.  But  the  fullness  of 
the  glow  he  shed  around  him  could  only  have  been 
engendered  in  his  contemplation  of  the  two  together,  and 
in  all  the  fancies  springing  out  of  that  association,  that 
came  sparkling  and  beaming  into  his  head,  and  danced 
about  it. 

How  they  talked  of  poor  old  Uncle  Sol,  and  dwelt  on 
every  little  circumstance  relating  to  his  disappearance  ;  how 
their  joy  was  moderated  by  the  old  man's  absence  and  by 
the  misfortunes  of  Florence  ;  how  they  released  Diogenes, 
whom  the  captain  had  decoyed  up-stairs  some  time  before, 
lest  he  should  bark  again  ;  the  captain,  though  he  was  in 
one  continual  flutter,  and  made  many  more  short  plunges 
into    the    shop,    fully    comprehended.      But    he    no    more 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  691 

dreamed  that  Walter  looked  on  Florence,  as  it  were,  from  a 
new  and  far-off  place  ;  that  while  his  eyes  often  sought  the 
lovely  face,  they  seldom  met  its  open  glance  of  sisterly  affec- 
tion, but  withdrew  themselves  when  hers  was  raised  toward 
him,  than  he  believed  that  it  was  Walter's  ghost  who  sat  be- 
side him.  He  saw  them  there  together  in  their  youth  and 
beauty,  and  he  knew  the  story  of  their  younger  days,  and  he 
had  no  inch  of  room  beneath  his  great  blue  waistcoat  for 
any  thing  save  admiration  of  such  a  pair,  and  gratitude  for 
their  being  reunited. 

They  sat  thus,  until  it  grew  late.  The  captain  would 
have  been  content  to  sit  so  for  a  week.  But  Walter  rose,  to 
take  leave  for  the  night. 

"  Going,  Walter  !"  said  Florence.     "Where  ?  " 

"  He  slings  his  hammock  for  the  present,  lady  lass,"  said 
Captain  Cuttle,  "  round  at  Brogley's.  Within  hail.  Heart's 
Delight." 

"  I  am  the  cause  of  your  going  away,  Walter,"  said 
Florence.     "  There  is  a  houseless  sister  in  your  place." 

"  Dear  Miss  Dombey,"  replied  Walter,  hesitating — "if  it 
is  not  too  bold  to  call  you  so  ! — " 

"  Walter  !  "  she  exclaimed,  surprised. 

"  If  any  thing  could  make  me  happier  in  being  allowed 
to  see  and  speak  to  you,  would  it  not  be  the  discovery  that 
I  had  any  means  on  earth  of  doing  you  a  moment's  service  ! 
Where  would  I  go,  what  would  I  not  do  for  your  sake  ?  " 

She  smiled,  and  called  him  brother. 

"You  are  sO  changed — "  said  Walter. 

"  I  changed  !  "  she  interrupted. 

"  To  me,"  said  Walter,  softly,  as  if  he  were  thinking  aloud, 
"  changed  to  me.  I  left  you  such  a  child,  and  find  you — - 
oh  !  something  so  different — " 

"  But  your  sister,  Walter.  You  have  not  forgotten  what 
we  promised  to  each  other  when  we  parted  ?" 

"  Forgotten  !  "     But  he  said  no  more. 

"And  if  you  had — if  suffering  and  danger  had  driven  it 
from  your  thoughts — which  it  has  not — you  would  remem- 
ber it  now,  Walter,  when  you  find  me  poor  and  abandoned, 
with  no  home  but  this,  and  no  friends  but  the  two  who  hear 
me  speak  !  " 

"  I  would  !     Heaven  knows  I  would  !"  said  Walter. 

"  Oh,  Walter,"  exclaimed  Florence,  through  her  sobs  and 
tears.  "  Dear  brother  !  Show  me  some  way  through  the 
world — some  humble  path  that  I  may  take  alone,  and  labor 


(592  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

in,  and  sometimes  think  of  you  as  one  who  will  protect  and 
care  for  me  as  for  a  sister  !  Oh,  help  me,  Walter,  for  I  need 
help  so  much  !  " 

*'  Miss  Dombey  !  Florence  !  I  would  die  to  help  you. 
But  your  friends  are  proud  and  rich.     Your  father — " 

"  No,  no,  Walter  !"  She  shrieked,  and  put  her  hands  up  to 
her  head,  in  an  attitude  of  terror  that  transfixed  him  where 
he  stood.     "  Don't  say  that  word  !  " 

He  never,  from  that  hour,  forgot  the  voice  and  look  with 
which  she  stopped  him  at  the  name.  He  felt  that  if  he  were 
to  live  a  hundred  years,  he  never  could  forget  it. 

Somewhere — anywhere — but  never  home  !  All  past,  all 
gone,  all  lost,  and  broken  up  !  The  whole  history  of  her 
untold  slight  and  suffering  was  in  the  cry  and  look  ;  and  he 
felt  he  never  could  forget  it,  and  he  never  did. 

She  laid  her  gentle  face  upon  the  captain's  shoulder,  and 
related  how  and  why  she  had  fled.  If  every  sorrowing  tear 
she  shed  in  doing  so  had  been  a  curse  upon  the  head  of  him 
she  never  named  or  blamed,  it  would  have  been  better  for 
him,  Walter  thought,  with  awe,  than  to  be  renounced  out  of 
such  a  strength  and  might  of  love. 

"  There,  precious  !  "  said  the  captain,  when  she  ceased  ; 
and  deep  attention  the  captain  had  paid  to  her  while  she 
spoke  ;  listening,  with  his  glazed  hat  all  awry  and  his  mouth 
wide  open.  "  Awast,  awast,  my  eyes  !  Wal'r,  dear  lad, 
sheer  off  for  to-night,  and  leave  the  pretty  one  to  me  !  " 

Walter  took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  and  put  it  to  his  lips, 
and  kissed  it.  He  knew  now  that  she  was,  indeed,  a  home- 
less fugitive  ;  but,  richer  to  him  so  than  in  all  the  wealth 
and  pride  of  her  right  station,  she  seemed  further  off  than 
even  on  the  height  that  had  made  him  giddy  in  his  boyish 
dreams. 

Captain  Cuttle,  perplexed  by  no  such  meditations,  guarded 
Florence  to  her  rooms,  and  watched  at  intervals  upon  the 
charmed  ground  outside  her  door — for  such  it  truly  was  to 
him — until  he  felt  sufficiently  easy  in  his  mind  about  her  to 
turn  in  under  the  counter.  On  abandoning  his  watch  foy 
that  purpose,  he  could  not  help  calling  once,  rapturously, 
through  the  key-hole,  "  Drownded.  Ain't  he,  pretty  ? " — or, 
when  he  got  down-stairs,  making  another  trial  at  that  verse- 
of  Lovely  Peg.  But  it  stuck  in  his  throat  somehow,  and  he 
could  make  nothing  of  it ;  so  he  went  to  bed,  and  dreamed 
that  old  Sol  Gills  was  married  to  Mrs.  MacStinger,  and  kept 
prisoner  by  that  ladv  in  a  secret  «- Camber  on  a  short  allow- 
ance of  victuals. 


DOMBEV   AND   SON.  69^ 


CHAPTER    L. 

MR.    TOOTS'S   COMPLAINT. 

There  was  an  empty  room  above  stairs  at  the  wooden 
midshipman's,  which,  in  days  of  yore,  had  been  Walter's 
bedroom.  Walter,  rousing  up  the  captain  betimes  in  the 
morning,  proposed  that  they  should  carry  thither  such  fur- 
niture out  of  the  little  parlor  as  would  grace  it  best,  so  that 
Florence  might  take  possession  of  it  when  she  rose.  As 
nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  Captain  Cuttle  than 
making  himself  very  red  and  short  of  breath  in  such  a  cause, 
he  turned  to  (as  he  himself  said)  with  a  will  ;  and,  in  a 
couple  of  hours,  this  garret  was  transformed  into  a  land- 
cabin,  adorned  with  all  the  choicest  movables  out  of  the  par- 
lor, inclusive  even  of  the  Tartar  frigate,  which  the  captain 
hung  up  over  the  chimney-piece  with  such  extreme  delight, 
that  he  could  do  nothing  for  half  an  hour  afterward  but 
walk  backward  from  it,  lost  in  admiration. 

The  captain  could  be  induced  by  no  persuasion  of  Wal- 
ter's to  wind  up  the  big  watch,  or  to  take  back  the  canister, 
or  to  touch  the  sugar-tongs  and  teaspoons.  ''  No,  no,  my 
lad,"  was  the  captain's  invariable  reply  to  any  solicitation  of 
the  kind,  "  I've  made  that  there  little  property  over  jintly." 
These  words  he  repeated  with  great  unction  and  gravity, 
evidently  believing  that  they  had  the  virtue  of  an  act  of  par- 
liament, and  that  unless  he  committed  himself  by  some  new 
admission  of  ownership,  no  flaw  could  be  found  in  such  a 
form  of  conveyance. 

It  was  an  advantage  of  the  new  arrangement,  that  besides 
the  greater  seclusion  it  afforded  Florence,  it  admitted  of  the 
midshipman  being  restored  to  his  usual  post  of  observation, 
and  also  of  the  shop  shutters  being  taken  down.  The  latter 
ceremony,  however  little  importance  the  captain  attached  to 
it,  was  not  wholly  superfluous  ;  for  on  the  previous  day,  so 
much  excitement  had  been  occasioned  in  the  neighborhood, 
by  the  shutters  remaining  unopened,  that  the  instrument- 
maker's  house  had  been  honored  with  an  unusual  share  of 
public  observation,  and  had  been  intently  stared  at  from  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way,  by  groups  of  hungry  gazers,  at  any 
time  between  sunrise  and  sunset.  The  idlers  and  vagabonds 
had  been  particularly  interested  in  the  captain's  fate  ;  con- 
stantly groveling  in  the  mud  to  apply  their  eyes  to  the  cellar- 


694  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

grating,  under  the  shop-window,  and  delighting  their  imag- 
inations with  the  fancy  that  they  could  see  a  piece  of  his  coat 
as  he  hung  in  the  corner  ;  though  this  settlement  was  stoutly 
disputed  by  an  opposite  faction,  who  were  of  the  opinion 
that  he  lay  murdered  with  a  hammer,  on  the  stairs.  It  was 
not  without  exciting  some  discontent,  therefore,  that  the 
subject  of  these  rumors  was  seen  early  in  the  morning  stand- 
ing at  his  shop-door  as  hale  and  hearty  as  if  nothing  had 
happened  ;  and  the  beadle  of  that  quarter,  a  man  of  an 
ambitious  character,  who  had  expected  to  have  had  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  present  at  the  breaking  open  of  the  door, 
and  of  giving  evidence  in  full  uniform  before  the  coroner, 
went  so  far  as  to  say  to  an  opposite  neighbor,  that  the  chap  in 
the  glazed  hat  had  better  not  try  it  on  there — without  more 
particularly  mentioning  what — and  further,  that  he,  the 
beadle,  would  keep  his  eye  upon  him. 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  musing,  when  they  stood 
resting  from  their  labors  at  the  shop-door,  looking  down  the 
old  familiar  street ;  it  being  still  early  in  the  morning  ;  "noth- 
ing at  all  of  Uncle  Sol,  in  all  that  time  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  shaking  his 
head. 

'*  Gone  in  search  of  me,  dear,  kind  old  man,"  said  Walter; 
**  yet  never  write  to  you  !  But  why  not  ?  He  says,  in  effect, 
in  this  packet  that  you  gave  me,"  taking  the  paper  from  his 
pocket,  which  had  been  opened  in  the  presence  of  the 
enlightened  Bunsby,  "  that,  if  you  never  hear  from  him 
before  opening  it,  you  may  believe  him  dead.  Heaven  for- 
bid !  But  you  would  have  heard  of  him,  even  if  he  were 
dead  !  Some  one  would  have  written,  surely,  by  his  desire, 
if  he  could  not  ;  and  have  said,  '  on  such  a  day,  there  died 
in  my  house,'  or  *  under  my  care,'  or  so  forth,  '  Mr.  Solomon 
Gills  of  London,  who  left  this  last  remembrance  and  this  last 
request  to  you.' " 

The  captain,  who  had  never  climbed  to  such  a  clear 
height  of  probability  before,  was  greatly  impressed  by 
the  wide  prospect  it  opened,  and  answered  with  a 
thoughtful  shake  of  his  head,  ''  Well  said,  my  lad  ;  very  well 
said." 

*'  I  have  been  thinking  of  this,  or,  at  least,"  said  Walter, 
coloring, ''  I  have  been  thinking  of  one  thing  and  another,  all 
through  a  sleepless  night,  and  I  can  not  believe.  Captain 
Cuttle,  but  that  Uncle  Sol  (Lord  bless  him  !)  is  alive,  and 
will   return.     1   don't   so   much  wonder  at  his  going  away, 


*■ 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  695 

because,  leaving  out  of  consideration  that  spice  of  the  marvel- 
ous which  was  always  in  his  character,  and  his  great  affec- 
tion for  me,  before  which  every  other  consideration  of  his 
life  became  nothing,  as  no  one  ought  to  know  so  well  as  I 
who  had  the  best  of  fathers  in  him  " — Walter's  voice  was 
indistinct  and  husky  here,  and  he  looked  away,  along  the 
street — "  leaving  that  out  of  consideration,  I  say,  I  have 
often  read  and  heard  of  people  who,  having  some  near  and 
dear  relative,  who  was  supposed  to  be  shipwrecked  at  sea, 
have  gone  down  to  live  on  that  part  of  the  sea-shore  where 
any  tidings  of  the  missing  ship  might  be  expected  to  arrive, 
though  only  an  hour  or  two  sooner  than  elsewhere,  or  have 
even  gone  upon  her  track  to  the  place  whither  she  was 
bound,  as  if  their  going  would  create  intelligence.  I  think  I 
would  do  such  a  thing  myself  as  soon  as  another,  or 
sooner  than  many,  perhaps.  But  why  my  uncle  shouldn't 
write  to  you  when  he  so  clearly  intended  to  do  so,  or  how  he 
should  die  abroad,  and  you  not  know  it  through  some  other 
hand,  I  can  not  make  out." 

Captain  Cuttle  observed  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  that 
Jack  Bunsby  himself  hadn't  made  it  out,  and  that  he  was  a 
man  as  could  give  a  pretty  taut  opinion,  too. 

"  If  my  uncle  had  been  a  heedless  young  man,  likely  to 
be  entrapped  by  jovial  company  to  some  drinking-place, 
where  he  was  to  be  got  rid  of  for  the  sake  of  what  money  he 
might  have  about  him,"  said  Walter  ;  "  or  if  he  had  been  a 
reckless  sailor,  going  ashore  with  two  or  three  months'  pay 
in  his  pocket,  I  could  understand  his  disappearing,  and 
leaving  no  trace  behind.  But,  being  what  he  was — and  is,  I 
hope — I  can't  believe  it." 

"  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  inquired  the  captain,  wistfully  eying 
him  as  he  pondered  and  pondered,  "  what  do  you  make  of 
it,  then  ?" 

"  Captain  Cuttle,"  returned  Walter,  *'  I  don't  know  what 
to  make  of  it.  I  suppose  he  never  has  written  !  There  is 
no  doubt  about  that  ?  " 

"  If  so  be  as  Sol  Gills  wrote,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain, 
argumentatively,  '*  where's  his  dispatch  ?  " 

"  Say  that  he  intrusted  it  to  some  private  hand,"  suggested 
Walter,  ''  and  that  it  had  been  forgotten,  or  carelessly  thrown 
aside,  or  lost.  Even  that  is  more  probable  to  me  than 
the  other  event.  In  sh-^rt,  I  not  only  can  not  bear  to  con- 
template that  other  event,  Captain  Cuttle,  but  I  can't  an4 
won't." 


6*gG  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

''Hope  you  see,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  sagely,  "Hope. 
It's  that  as  animates  you.  Hope  is  a  buoy,  for  which  you 
overhaul  your  Little  Warbler,  sentimental  diwision,  but  Lord, 
my  lad,  like  any  other  buoy,  it  only  floats  ;  it  can't  be 
steered  nowhere.  Along  with  the  figure-head  of  hope,"  said 
the  captain,  "  there's  a  anchor ;  but  what's  the  good  of 
my  having  an  anchor,  if  I  can't  find  no  bottom  to  let  it 
go  in." 

Captain  Cuttle  said  this  rather  in  his  character  of  a  saga- 
cious citizen  and  householder,  bound  to  impart  a  morsel 
from  his  stores  of  wisdom  to  an  inexperienced  youth,  than  in 
his  own  proper  person.  Indeed  his  face  was  quite  luminous 
as  he  spoke,  with  new  hope,  caught  from  Walter  ;  and  he 
appropriately  concluded  by  slapping  him  on  the  back  ;  and 
saying,  with  enthusiasm,  "  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  Indiwidually, 
I'm  o'  your  opinion." 

Walter,  v/ith  his  cheerful  laugh,  returned  the  salutation, 
and  said  : 

"  Only  one  word  more  about  my  uncle  at  present.  Captain 
Cuttle.  I  suppose  it  is  impossible  that  he  can  have  written 
in  the  ordinary  course — by  mail  packet,  or  ship  letter,  you 
understand — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  approvingly. 

" — And  that  you  have  missed  the  letter  anyhow  ? " 

"Why,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  turning  his  eyes  upon  him 
with  a  faint  approach  to  a  severe  expression,  "  ain't  I  been 
on  the  lookout  for  any  tidings  of  that  man  o'  science,  old 
Sol  Gills,  your  uncle,  day  and  night,  ever  since  I  lost  him  ? 
Ain't  my  heart^been  heavy  and  watchful  always  along  of  him 
and  you?  Sleeping  and  waking,  ain't  I  been  upon  my  post,  and 
wouldn't  I  scorn  to  quit  it  while  this  here  midshipman  held 
together !  " 

"  Yes,  Captain  Cuttle,"  replied  Weaker,  grasping  his  hand, 
"  I  know  you  would,  and  I  know  how  faithful  and  earnest 
all  you  say  and  feel  is.  I  am  sure  of  it.  You  don't  doubt 
that  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  I  am  that  my  foot  is  again  upon  this 
door-step,  or  that  I  again  have  hold  of  this  true  hand.  Do 
you  ? " 

"  No,  no,  Wal'r,"  returned  the  captain,  with  his  beaming 
face. 

"  I'll  hazard  no  more  conjectures,"  said  Walter,  fervently 
shaking  the  hard  hand  of  the  captain,  who  shook  his  with  no 
less  good-will.  "  All  I  will  add  is,  heaven  forbid  that  I 
should    touch    my    uncle's   possessions,    Captain    Cuttle ' 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  697 

Every  thing  that  he  left  here  shall  remain  here  in  the  care 
of  the  truest  of  stewards  and  kindest  of  men^-and  if  his 
name  is  not  Cuttle,  he  has  no  name  !  Now,  best  of  friends, 
about — Miss  Dombey." 

There  was  a  change  in  Walter's  manner,  as  he  came  to 
these  two  words  ;  and  when  he  uttered  them,  all  his  confi- 
dence and  cheerfulness  appeared  to  have  deserted  him. 

"  I  thought,  before  Miss  Dombey  stopped  me  when  I 
spoke  of  her  father  last  night,"  said  Walter,  "  — you  remem- 
ber how  ? " 

The  captain  well  remembered,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Walter,  "  before  that,  that  we  had  but 
one  hard  duty  to  perform,  and  that  it  was,  to  prevail  upon 
her  to  communicate  with  her  friends,  and  to  return  home." 

The  captain  muttered  a  feeble  "  awast  !  "  or  a  ''  stand 
by,"  or  something  or  other  equally  pertinent  to  the  occa- 
sion ;  but  it  was  rendered  so  extremely  feeble  by  the  total 
discomfiture  with  which  he  received  this  announcement,  that 
what  it  was  is  mere  matter  of  conjecture. 

*'But,"  said  Walter,  ''that  is  over.  I  think  so  no  longer. 
I  would  sooner  be  put  back  again  upon  that  piece  of  wreck, 
on  which  I  have  so  often  floated,  since  my  preservation,  in 
my  dreams,  and  there  left  to  drift,  and  drive,  and  die  !  " 

"  Hooroar,  my  lad  !  "  exclaimed  the  captain  in  a  burst  of 
uncontrollable  satisfaction.  "  Hooroar !  hooroar !  hoo- 
roar !  " 

"  To  think,  that  she,  so  young,  so  good,  and  beautiful," 
said  Walter,  "  so  delicately  brought  up,  and  born  to  such  a 
different  fortune,  should  strive  with  the  rough  world  !  But 
we  have  seen  the  gulf  that  cuts  off  all  behind  her,  though 
no  one  but  herself  can  know  how  deep  it  is  ;  and  there  is  no 
return." 

Captain  Cuttle,  without  quite  understanding  this,  greatly 
approved  of  it,  and  observed,  in  a  tone  of  strong  corrobora- 
tion, that  the  wind  was  quite  abaft. 

"  She  ought  not  to  be  alone  here  ;  ought  she,  Captain 
Cuttle  ?  "  said  Walter,  anxiously. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  replied  the  captain,  after  a  little 
sagacious  consideration.  ''  I  don't  know.  You  being 
here  to  keep  her  company,  you  see,  and  you  two  being 
jintly— " 

"  Dear  Captain  Cuttle  !  "  remonstrated  Walter.  *'  I  bemg 
here  !  Miss  Dombey,  in  her  guileless,  innocent  heart, 
regards  me  as   her   adopted  brother  ;  but  vrhat  would  the 


695  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

guile  and  guilt  of  7ny  heart  be,  if  I  pretended  to  believe 
that  I  had.  any  right  to  approach  her,  familiarly,  in  that 
character — if  I  pretended  to  forget  that  I  am  bound,  in 
honor,  not  to  do  it  !  " 

*'  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  hinted  the  captain,  with  some  revival 
of  his  discomfiture,  ''  ain't  there  no  other  character  as — " 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  Walter,  *'  would  you  have  me  die  in  her 
esteem — in  such  esteem  as  hers — and  put  a  veil  between 
myself  and  her  angel's  face  forever,  by  taking  advantage  of 
her  being  here  for  refuge,  so  trusting  and  so  unprotected,  to 
endeavor  to  exalt  myself  into  her  lover  !  What  do  I  say  ? 
There  is  no  one  in  the  world  who  would  be  more  opposed  to 
me  if  I  could  do  so,  than  you." 

^*  Wal'r,  my  lad,"  said  the  captain,  drooping  more  and 
more,  ''  prowiding  as  there  is  any  just  cause  or  impediment 
why  two  persons  should  not  be  jined  together  in  the  house 
of  bondage,  for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  place  and  make  a 
note,  I  hope  I  should  declare  it  as  promised  and  wowed  in 
the  banns.  So  there  ain't  no  other  character  ;  ain't  there, 
my  lad  !  " 

Walter  briskly  waved  his  hand  in  the  negative. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  growled  the  captain,  slowly,  "  I  won't 
deny  but  what  I  find  myself  wery  much  down  by  the  head, 
along  o'  this  here,  or  but  what  I've  gone  clean  about.  But 
as  to  lady-lass,  Wal'r,  mind  you,  wot's  respect  and  duty  to 
her  is  respect  and  duty  in  my<articles,  howsumwer  disapint- 
ing  ;  and  therefore  I  follows  in  your  wake,  my  lad,  and  feel 
as  you  are,  no  doubt,  acting  up  to  yourself.  And  there  ain't 
no  other  character,  ain't  there  !  "  said  the  captain,  musing 
over  the  ruins  of  his  fallen  castle  with  a  very  despondent 
face. 

"  Now,  Captain  Cuttle,"  said  Walter,  starting  a  fresh  point 
with  a  gayer  air,  to  cheer  the  captain  up — but  nothing  could 
do  that  ;  he  was  too  much  concerned — ''  I  think  we  should 
exert  ourselves  to  find  some  one  who  would  be  a  proper 
attendant  for  Miss  Dombey  while  she  remains  here,  and  who 
may  be  trusted.  None  of  her  relations  may.  It's  clear  Miss 
Dombey  feels  that  they  are  all  subservient  to  her  father. 
What  has  become  of  Susan?" 

"  The  young  woman  ?"  returned  the  captain.  "  It's  my 
belief  as  she  was  sent  away  again  the  will  of  Heart's  Delight. 
I  made  a  signal  for  her  when  lady-lass  first  come,  and  she 
rated  of  her  wery  high,  and  sdd  she  had  been  gone  a  long 
time/' 


BOMBEY    AND    SON.  699 

"  Then,"  said  Walter,  "  do  you  ask  Miss  Dombey  where 
she's  gon^.  and  we'll  try  to  find  her.  The  morning's  getting 
on,  and  Miss  Dombey  will  soon  be  rising.  You  are  her  best 
friend.  Wait  for  her  up-stairs,  and  leave  me  to  take  care  of 
all  down  here." 

The  captain,  very  crestfallen  indeed,  echoed  the  sigh 
with  which  Walter  said  this,  and  complied.  Florence  was 
delighted  with  her  new  room,  anxious  to  see  Walter,  and  over- 
joyed at  the  prospect  of  greeting  her  old  friend  Susan.  But 
Florence  could  not  say  where  Susan  was  gone,  except  that 
it  was  in  Essex,  and  no  one  could  say,  she  remembered,  un- 
less it  was  Mr.  Toots. 

With  this  information  the  melancholy  captain  returned  to 
Walter,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that  Mr.  Toots  was  the 
young  man  whom  he  had  encountered  on  the  door-step,  and 
that  he  was  a  friend  of  his,  and  that  he  was  a  young  gentle- 
man of  property,  and  that  he  hopelessly  adored  Miss  Dom- 
bey. The  captain  also  related  how  the  intelligence  of  Wal- 
ter's supposed  fate  had  first  made  him  acquainted  with  Mr. 
Toots,  and  how  there  was  solemn  treaty  and  compact 
between  them,  that  Mr.  Toots  should  be  mute  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  his  love. 

The  question  then  was,  whether  Florence  could  trust  Mr. 
Toots;  and  Florence  saying,  with  a  smile,  ''  Oh  yes,  with  her 
whole  heart!"  it  became  important  to  find  out  where  Mr, 
Toots  lived.  This  Florence  didn't  know,  and  the  captain 
had  forgotten;  and  the  captain  was  telling  Walter,  in  the 
little  parlor,  that  Mr.  Toots  was  sure  to  be  there  soon,  when 
in  came  Mr.  Toots  himself. 

"Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  rushing  into  the  parlor 
without  any  ceremony,  "  I'm  in  a  state  of  mind  bordering 
on  distraction!" 

Mr.  Toots  had  discharged  those  words,  as  from  a  mortar, 
before  he  observed  Walter,  whom  he  recognized  with  what 
may  be  described  as  a  chuckle  of  misery. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  holding  his  fore 
head,  "but  I'm  at  present  in   that   state   that  my  brain  i^ 
going,  if  not  gone,  and  any  thing  approaching  to  politeness  in 
an  individual  so  situated  would  be  a  hollow  mockery.    Cap- 
tain Gills,  I  beg  to  request  the  favor  of  a  private  interview." 

"Why,  brother,"  returned  the  captain,  taking  him  by  the 
hand,  "  you  are  the  man  as  v/e  was  on  the  lookout  for." 

"Oh,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "what  a  lookout 
that  must  be,  of  which  /  am  the  object!     I  haven't  dared  to 


700  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

shave,  I'm  in  that  rash  state.  I  haven't  had  my  clothes 
brushed.  My  hair  is  matted  together.  I  told  the  Chicken 
that  if  he  offered  to  clean  my  boots,  I'd  stretch  him  a  corpse 
before  me!" 

All  these  indications  of  a  disordered  mind  were  veri- 
fied in  Mr.  Toots's  appearance,  which  was  wild  and  sav- 
age. 

"See  here,  brother,"  said  the  captain.  "This  here's  old 
Sol  Gills's  nevy,  Wal'r.  Him  as  was  supposed  to  have  per- 
ished at  sea." 

Mr.  Toots  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead,  and  stared  at 
Walter. 

"Good  gracious  me!"  stammered  Mr.  Toots.  "What  a 
complication  of  misery!  How-de-do  ?  I — I — I'm  afraid 
you  must  have  got  very  wet.  Captain  Gills,  will  you  allow 
me  a  word  in  the  shop  ?" 

He  took  the  captain  by  the  coat,  and,  going  out  with  him, 
whispered: 

"  That  then.  Captain  Gills,  is  the  party  you  spoke  of  when 
you  said  that  he  and  Miss  Dombey  were  made  for  one 
another?" 

"Why,  ay,  my  lad,"  replied  the  disconsolate  captain;  "I 
was  of  that  mind  once." 

"And  at  this  time!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Toots,  with  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  again.  "  Of  all  others! — a  hated  rival!  At 
least,  he  ain't  a  hated  rival,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stopping  short, 
on  second  thoughts,  and  taking  away  his  hand;  "  what  should 
I  hate  him  for  ?  No.  If  my  affection  has  been  truly  disin- 
terested. Captain  Gills,  let  me  prove  it  now!" 

Mr.  Toots  shot  back  abruptly  into  the  parlor,  and  said, 
wringing  Walter  by  the  hand: 

"  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  didn't  take  any  cold.  I — I 
shall  be  very  glad  if  you'll  give  me  the  pleasure  of  your 
acquaintance.  I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  the  day. 
Upon  my  word  and  honor,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  warming  as  he 
became  better  acquainted  with  Walter's  face  and  figure, 
"I'm  very  glad  to  see  you!" 

"  Thank  you,  heartily,"  said  Walter.  "I  couldn't  desire 
a  more  genuine  and  genial  welcome." 

"  Couldn't  you,  though  ?"  said  Mr;  Toots,  still  shaking 
his  hand.  "  It's  very  kind  of  you.  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you.  How-de-do  ?  I  hope  you  left  every  body  quite  well 
over  the — that  is,  upon  the — I  mean  wherever  you  came 
from  last,  you  know." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  701 

All  these  good  wishes,  and  better  intentions,  Walter  re- 
sponded to  manfully. 

*'  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  wish  to  be 
strictly  honorable;  but  I  trust  I  may  be  allowed  now  to 
allude  to  a  certain  subject  that — " 

"  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  returned  the  captain.    "  Freely,  freely." 

"Then,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "and  Lieutenant 
Walters,  are  you  aware  that  the  most  dreadful  circumstances 
have  been  happening  at  Mr.  Dombey's  house,  and  that  Miss 
Dombey  herself  has  left  her  father,  who,  in  my  opinion," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  with  great  excitement,  "  is  a  brute,  that  it 
would  be  a  flattery  to  call  a — a  marble  monument,  or  a  bird 
of  prey — and  that  she  is  not  to  be  found,  and  has  gone  no 
one  knows  where  ?" 

"  May  I  ask  how  you  heard  this  ?"  inquired  Walter. 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  who  had  arrived 
at  that  appellation  by  a  process  peculiar  to  himself;  proba- 
bly by  jumbling  up  his  Christian  name  with  the  seafaring 
profession,  and  supposing  some  relationship  between  him 
and  the  captain,  which  would  extend,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
to  their  titles;  "  Lieutenant  Walters,  I  can  have  no  objec- 
tion to  make  a  straightforward  reply.  The  fact  is,  that  feel- 
ing extremely  interested  in  every  thing  that  relates  to  Miss 
Dombey — not  for  any  selfish  reason.  Lieutenant  Walters,  for 
I  am  well  aware  that  the  most  agreeable  thing  I  could  do  for 
all  parties  would  be  to  put  an  end  to  my  existence,  which 
can  only  be  regarded  as  an  inconvenience — I  have  been  in 
the  habit  of  bestowing  a  trifle  now  and  then  upon  a  foot- 
man; a  most  respectable  young  man,  of  the  name  of  Tow- 
linson,  who  has  lived  in  the  family  some  time;  and  Towlin- 
son  informed  me  yesterday  evening  that  this  was  the  state 
of  things.  Since  which,  Captain  Gills — and  Lieutenant  Wal- 
ters— I  have  been  perfectly  frantic,  and  have  been  lying 
down  on  the  sofa  all  night,  the  ruin  you  behold." 

"Mr.  Toots,"  said  Walter,  "I  am  happy  to  be  able  to 
relieve  your  mind.  Pray  calm  yourself.  Miss  Dombey  is 
safe  and  well." 

"  Sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Toots,  starting  from  his  chair  and 
shaking  hands  with  him  anew,  "  the  relief  is  so  excessive 
and  unspeakable  that,  if  you  were  to  tell  me  now  that  Miss 
Dombey  was  married  even,  I  could  smile.  Yes,  Captain 
Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots  appealing  to  him,  "upon  my  soul  and 
body,  I  really  think,  whatever  I  might  do  to  myself 
immediately  afterward,  that  I  could  smile,  I  am  so  relieved," 


702  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

"  It  will  be  a  greater  relief  and  delight  still,  to  such  a  gen- 
erous mind  as  yours,"  said  Walter,  not  at  all  slow  in  return- 
ing his  greeting,  "  to  find  that  you  can  render  service  to  Miss 
Dombey.  Captain  Cuttle,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to 
take  Mr.  Toots  up-stairs  ?  " 

The  captain  beckoned  to  Mr.  Toots,  who  followed  him 
with  a  bewildered  countenance,  and,  ascending  to  the  top  of 
the  house,  was  introduced,  without  a  word  of  preparation 
from  his  conductor,  into  Florence's  new  retreat. 

Poor  Mr.  Toots's  amazement  and  pleasure  at  sight  of  her 
were  such,  that  they  could  find  a  vent  in  nothing  but 
extravagance.  He  ran  up  to  her,  seized  her  hand,  kissed  it, 
dropped  it,  seized  it  again,  fell  upon  one  knee,  shed  tears, 
chuckled,  and  was  quite  regardless  of  his  danger  of  being 
pinned  by  Diogenes,  who,  inspired  by  the  belief  that  there 
was  something  hostile  to  his  mistress  in  these  demonstrations, 
worked  round  and  round  him,  as  if  only  undecided  at  what 
particular  point  to  go  in  for  the  assault,  but  quite  resolved 
to  do  him  a  fearful  mischief. 

"  Oh  Di,  you  bad,  forgetful  dog  !  Dear  Mr.  Toots,  I  am 
so  rejoiced  to  see  you  !  " 

"  Thankee,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''  I  am  pretty  well,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you,  Miss  Dombey.  I  hope  all  the  family  are  the 
same." 

Mr.  Toots  said  this  without  the  least  notion  of  what  he 
was  talking  about  and  sat  down  on  a  chair,  staring  at 
Florence  with  the  liveliest  contention  of  delight  and  despair 
going  on  in  his  face  that  any  face  could  exhibit. 

''  Captain  Gills  and  Lieutenant  Walters  have  mentioned. 
Miss  Dombey,"  gasped  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  can  do  you  some 
service.  If  I  could  by  any  means  wash  out  the  remembrance 
of  that  day  at  Brighton,  when  I  conducted  myself — much 
more  like  a  parricide  than  a  person  of  independent  property," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  with  severe  self-accusation,  "  I  should  sink 
into  the  silent  tomb  with  a  gleam  of  joy." 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Toots,"  said  Florence,  "  do  not  wish  me  to 
forget  any  thing  in  our  acquaintance.  I  never  can,  believe 
me.  You  have  been  far  too  kind  and  good  to  me, 
always." 

'•  Miss  Dombey,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  *'  your  consideration 
for  my  feelings  is  a  part  of  your  angelic  character.  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times.     It's  of  no  consequence  at  all." 

'*  What  we  thought  of  asking  you,"  said  Florence,  "  is, 
whether  you  remember  where  Susan,  whom  you  were  so  kind 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  703 

as  to  accompany  to  the  coach-office  when  she  left  me,  is  to 
be  found." 

*'  Why  I  do  not  certainly,  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
after  a  little  consideration,  "  remember  the  exact  name  of 
the  place  that  was  on  the  coach  ;  and  I  do  recollect  tnat 
she  said  she  was  not  going  to  stop  there,  but  was  going 
further  on.  But,  Miss  Dombey,  if  your  object  is  to  find  her, 
and  to  have  her  here,  myself  and  the  Chicken  will  produce 
her  with  every  dispatch  that  devotion  on  my  part,  and  great 
intelligence  on  the  Chicken's,  can  insure." 

Mr.  Toots  was  so  manifestly  delighted  and  revived  by 
the  prospect  of  being  useful,  and  the  disinterested  sincerity 
of  his  devotion  was  so  unquestionable,  that  it  would  have 
been  cruel  to  refuse  him.  Florence,  with  an  instinctive 
delicacy,  forbore  to  urge  the  least  obstacle,  though  she  did 
not  forbear  to  overpower  him  with  thanks  ;  and  Mr.  Toots 
proudly  took  the  commission  upon  himself  for  immediate 
execution. 

*'  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  touching  her  proffered 
hand,  with  a  pang  of  hopeless  love  visibly  shooting  through 
him,  and  flashing  out  in  his  face,  "  Good-by  I  Allow  me  to 
take  the  liberty  of  saying,  that  your  misfortunes  make  me 
perfectly  wretched,  and  that  you  may  trust  me,  next  to  Cap- 
tain Gills  himself.  I  am  quite  aware.  Miss  Dombey,  of  my 
own  deficiencies — they're  not  of  the  least  consequence, 
thank  you — but  I  am  entirely  to  be  relied  upon,  I  do  assure 
you.  Miss  Dombey." 

With  that  ]\ir.  Toots  came  out  of  the  room,  again  accom- 
panied by  the  captain,  who,  standing  at  a  little  distance, 
holding  his  hat  under  his  arm  and  arranging  his  scattered 
locks  with  his  hook,  had  been  a  not  uninterested  witness  of 
what  passed.  And  when  the  door  closed  behind  them,  the 
light  of  Mr.  Toots' s  life  was  darkly  clouded  again. 

''  Captain  Gills,"  said  that  gentleman,  stopping  near  the 
bottom  of  the  stars,  and  turning  round,  "  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
I  am  not  in  a  frame  of  mind  at  the  present  moment  in  which 
I  could  see  Lieutenant  Walters  with  that  entirely  friendly 
feeling  toward  him  that  I  should  wish  to  harbor  in  my  breast. 
W^e  can  not  always  command  our  feelings,  Captain  Gills,  and 
I  should  take  it  as  a  particular  favor  if  you'd  let  me  our  at 
the  private  door." 

'*  Brother,"  returned  the  captain,  "you  shall  shape  your 
own  course.  Wotever  course  you  take,  is  plain  and  seaman- 
like, I'm  wery  sure." 


704  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  ''  you're  extremely  kind. 
Your  good  opinion  is  a  consolation  to  me.  There  is  one 
thing,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  standing  in  the  passage,  behind  the 
half-opened  door,  "  that  I  hope  you'll  bear  in  mind.  Captain 
Gills,  and  that  I  should  wish  Lieutenant  Walters  to  be  made 
acquainted  with.  I  have  quite  come  into  my  property  now, 
you  know,  and — and  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  If  I 
could  be  at  all  useful  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  I  should 
glide  into  the  silent  tomb  with  ease  and  smoothness." 

Mr.  Toots  said  no  more,  but  slipped  out  quietly  and 
shut  the  door  upon  himself,  to  cut  the  captain  off  from  any 
reply. 

Florence  thought  of  this  good  creature,  long  after  he  had 
left  her,  with  mingled  emotions  of  pain  and  pleasure.  He 
was  so  honest  and  warm-hearted,  that  to  see  him  again  and 
be  assured  of  his  truth  to  her  in  her  distress,  was  a  joy  and 
comfort  beyond  all  price  ;  but  for  that  very  reason,  it  was  so 
affecting  to  think  that  she  caused  him  a  moment's  unhappi- 
ness,  or  ruffled,  by  a  breath,  the  harmless  current  of  his  life 
that  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  bosom  overflowed 
with  pity.  Captain  Cuttle,  in  his  different  way,  thought 
much  of  Mr.  Toots  too  ;  and  so  did  Walter  ;  and  when  the 
evening  came,  and  they  were  all  sitting  together  in  Florence's 
new  room,  Walter  praised  him  in  a  most  impassioned  man- 
ner, and  told  Florence  what  he  had  said  on  leaving  the  house, 
with  every  graceful  setting-off  in  the  way  of  comment  and 
appreciation  that  his  own  honesty  and  sympathy  could  sur- 
round it  with. 

Mr.  Toots  did  not  return  upon  the  next  day,  or  next,  or 
for  several  days  ;  and  in  the  meanwhile  Florence,  without 
any  new  alarm,  lived  like  a  quiet  bird  in  a  cage,  at  the  top 
of  the  old  instrument-maker's  house.  But  PTorence  drooped 
and  hung  her  head  more  and  more  plainly  as  the  days  went 
on  ;  and  the  expression  that  had  been  seen  in  the  face  of 
the  dead  child  was  often  turned  to  the  sky  from  her  high 
window,  as  if  it  sought  his  angel  out,  on  the  bright  shore  of 
which  he  had  spoken,  lying  on  his  little  bed. 

Florence  had  been  weak  and  delicate  of  late,  and  the  agi- 
tation she  had  undergone  was  not  without  its  influences  on 
her  health.  But  it  was  no  bodily  illness  that  affected  her 
now.  She  was  distressed  in  mind  ;  and  the  cause  of  her 
distress  was  Walter. 

Interested  in  her,  anxious  for  her,  proud  and  glad  to  serve 
her,  and  showing  all  this  with  the  enthusiasm  and  ardor  of 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  705 

his  character,  Florence  saw  that  he  avoided  her.  All  the 
long  day  through,  he  seldom  approached  her  room.  If  she 
asked  for  him,  he  came,  again  for  the  moment  as  earnest  and 
as  bright  as  she  remembered  him  when  she  was  a  lost  child 
in  the  staring  streets  ;  but  he  soon  became  constrained — her 
quick  affection  was  too  watchful  not  to  know  it — and  uneasy, 
and  soon  left  her.  U-isought,  he  never  came,  all  day, 
between  the  morning  and  the  night.  When  the  evening 
closed  in,  he  was  always  there,  and  that  was  her  happiest 
time,  for  then  she  half  believed  that  the  old  Walter  of  her 
childhood  was  not  changed.  But,  even  then,  some  trivial 
word,  look,  or  circumstance  would  show  her  that  there  was 
an  indefinable  division  between  them  which  could  not  be 
passed. 

And  she  could  not  but  see  that  these  revealings  of  a  great 
alteration  in  Walter  manifested  themselves  in  despite  of  his 
utmost  efforts  to  hide  them.  In  his  consideration  for  her, 
she  thought,  and  in  the  earnestness  of  his  desire  to  spare  her 
any  wound  from  his  kind  hand,  he  resorted  to  innumerable 
little  artifices  and  disguises.  So  much  the  more  did  Flor- 
ence feel  the  greatness  of  the  alteration  in  him  ;  so  much 
the  oftener  did  she  weep  at  this  estrangement  of  her  brother. 

The  good  captain — her  untiring,  tender,  ever  zealous 
friend — saw  it  too,  Florence  thought,  and  it  pained  him. 
He  was  less  cheerful  and  hopeful  than  he  had  been  at  first, 
and  would  steal  looks  at  her  and  Walter,  by  turns,  when  they 
were  all  three  together  of  an  evening,  with  quite  a  sad 
face. 

Florence  resolved,  at  last,  to  speak  to  Walter.  She 
believed  she  knew  now  what  the  cause  of  his  estrangement 
was,  and  she  thought  it  would  be  a  relief  to  her  full  heart, 
and  would  set  him  more  at  ease,  if  she  told  him  she  had 
found  it  out,  and  quite  submitted  to  it,  and  did  not  reproach 
him. 

It  was  on  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon  that  Florence  took 
this  resolution.  The  faithful  captain,  in  an  amazing  shirt- 
collar,  was  sitting  by  her,  reading  with  his  spectacles  on,  and 
she  asked  him  where  Walter  was. 

"  I  think  he's  down  below,  my  lady  lass,"  returned  the 
captain. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  him,"  said  Florence,  rising 
hurriedly,  as  if  to  go  down-stairs. 

"  I'll  rouse  him  up  here,  beauty,"  said  the  captain,  "  in  a 
trice." 


7o6  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

Thereupon  the  captain,  with  much  alacrity,  shouldered 
his  book — for  he  made  it  a  point  of  duty  to  read  none  but 
very  large  books  on  a  Sunday,  as  having  a  more  staid 
appearance  :  and  had  bargained,  years  ago,  for  a  prodigious 
volume  at  a  book-stall,  five  lines  of  which  utterly  confounded 
him  at  any  time,  insomuch  that  he  had  not  yet  ascertained 
of  what  subject  it  treated — and  withdrew.  Walter  soon 
appeared. 

•*  Captain  Cuttle  tells  me,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  eagerly 
began,  on  coming  in — but  stopped  when  he  saw  lier  face. 

"  You  are  not  so  well  to-day.  You  looked  distressed. 
You  have  been  weeping." 

He  spoke  so  kindly,  and  with  such  a  fervent  tremor  in 
his  voice,  that  the  tears  gushed  into  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of 
his  words. 

''Walter,"  said  Florence,  gently,''!  am  not  quite  well, 
and  I  have  been  weeping.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  her,  looking  at  her  beautiful  and 
innocent  face ;  and  his  own  turned  pale,  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

"You  said,  upon  the  night  when  I  knew  that  you  were 
saved — and  oh  !  dear  Walter,  what  I  felt  that  night,  and 
what  I  hoped  !  " 

He  put  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  table  between  them, 
and  sat  looking  at  her. 

— "  that  I  was  changed.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  you  say 
so,  but  I  understand,  now,  that  I  am.  Don't  be  angry  with 
me,  Walter.     I  was  too  much  overjoyed  to  think  of  it  then." 

She  seemed  a  child  to  him  again.  It  was  the  ingenuous, 
confiding,  loving  child  he  saw  and  heard.  Not  the  dear 
woman,  at  whose  feet  he  would  have  laid  the  riches  of  the 
earth. 

"  You  remember  the  last  time  I  saw  you,  Walter,  before 
you  went  away  ?  " 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast,  and  took  out  a  little  purse. 

"  I  have  always  worn  it  round  my  neck  !  If  I  had  gone 
down  in  the  deep,  it  would  have  been  with  me  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea." 

"  And  you  will  wear  it  still,  Walter,  for  my  old  sake  ?  " 

"  Until  I  die  !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  as  fearlessly  and  simply,  as  if 
not  a  day  had  intervened  since  she  gave  him  the  little  token 
of  remembrance. 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.     I  shall  be  always  glad  to  think  so. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  70^ 

Walter.  Do  you  recollect  that  a  thought  of  this  change 
seemed  to  come  into  our  minds  at  the  same  time  that  even- 
ing, when  we  were  talking  together  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  he  answered,  in  a  wondering  tone. 

"  Yes,  Walter.  I  had  been  the  means  of  injuring  your 
hopes  and  prospects  even  then.  I  feared  to  think  so  then, 
but  I  know  it  now.  If  you  were  able  then,  in  your  gener- 
osity, to  hide  from  me  that  you  knew  it,  too,  you  can  not  do 
so  now,  although  you  try  as  generously  as  before.  Y'ou  do. 
I  thank  you  for  it,  Walter,  deeply,  truly  ;  but  you  can  not 
succeed.  You  have  suffered  too  much  in  your  own  hard- 
ships, and  in  those  of  your  dearest  relation,  quite  to  overlook 
the  innocent  cause  of  all  the  peril  and  affliction  that  has 
befallen  you.  You  can  not  quite  forget  me  in  that  charac- 
ter, and  we  can  be  brother  and  sister  no  longer.  But,  dear 
Walter,  do  not  think  that  I  complain  of  you  in  this.  I  might 
have  known  it — ought  to  have  known  it — but  forget  it  in  my 
joy.  All  I  hope  is  that  you  may  think  of  me  less  irksomely, 
when  this  feeling  is  no  more  a  secret  one  ;  and  all  I  ask  is, 
W^alter,  in  the  name  of  the  poor  child  who  was  your  sister 
once,  that  you  will  not  struggle  with  yourself,  and  pain 
yourself,  for  my  sake,  now  that  I  know  all  !  " 

Walter  had  looked  upon  her  while  she  said  this,  with  a 
face  so  full  of  wonder  and  amazement,  that  it  had  room  for 
nothing  else.  Now  he  caught  up  the  hand  that  touched  his, 
so  entreatingly,  and  held  it  between  his  own. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Dombey,"  he  said,  "  is  it  possible  that  while  I 
have  been  suffering  so  much,  in  striving  with  my  sense  of 
what  is  due  to  you,  and  must  be  rendered  to  you,  I  have 
made  you  suffer  what  your  words  disclose  to  me.  Never, 
never,  before  heaven,  have  I  thought  of  you  but  as  the 
single,  bright,  pure,  blessed  recollection  of  my  boyhood  and 
my  youth.  Never  have  I  from  the  first,  and  never  shall  I  to 
the  last,  regard  your  part  in  my  life  but  as  something  sacred, 
never  to  be  lightly  thought  of,  never  to  be  esteemed  enough, 
never,  until  death,  to  be  forgotten.  Again  to  see  you  look, 
and  hear  you  speak,  as  you  did  on  that  night  when  we  parted, 
is  happiness  to  me  that  there  are  no  words  to  utter  ;  and  to 
be  loved  and  trusted  as  your  brother  is  the  next  great  gift  I 
could  receive  and  prize  !  " 

"  Walter,"  said  Florence,  looking  at  him  earnestly,  but 
with  a  changing  face,  "  what  is  that  which  is  due  to  me,  and 
must  be  rendered  to  me,  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  this  ? " 

"Respect,"  said  Walter,  in  a  low  town.     "  Reverence." 


7o8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  color  dawned  in  her  face,  and  she  timidly  and 
thoughtfully  withdrew  her  hand  ;  still  looking  at  him  with 
unabated  earnestness, 

"  I  have  not  a  brother's  right,"  said  Walter.  "  I  have  not 
a  brother's  claim.     I  left  a  child.     I  find  a  woman." 

The  color  overspread  her  face.  She  made  a  gesture  as  if 
of  entreaty  that  he  would  say  no  more,  and  her  face  dropped 
upon  her  hands. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  time  ;  she  weeping. 

"  I  owe  it  to  a  heart  so  trusting,  pure,  and  good,"  said 
Walter,  "  even  to  tear  myself  from  it,  though  I  rend  my  own. 
How  dare  I  say  it  is  my  sister's  !  " 

She  was  weeping  still. 

"  If  you  had  been  happy  ;  surrounded  as  you  should  be 
by  loving  and  admiring  friends,  and  by  all  that  makes  the 
station  you  were  born  to  enviable,"  said  Walter  ;  "  and  if 
you  had  called  me  brother,  then,  in  your  affectionate  remem- 
brance of  the  past,  I  could  have  answered  to  the  name  from 
my  distant  place,  with  no  inward  assurance  that  I  wronged 
your  spotless  truth  by  doing  so.     But  here — and  now  !" 

"  Oh  thank  you,  thank  you,  Walter  !  Forgive  my  having 
wronged  you  so  much.  I  had  no  one  to  advise  me.  I  am 
quite  alone." 

"  Florence  !"  said  Walter,  passionately.  "  I  am  hurried 
on  to  say,  what  I  thought,  but  a  few  moments  ago,  nothing 
could  have  forced  from  my  lips.  If  I  had  been  prosperous; 
if  I  had  any  means  or  hope  of  being  one  day  able  to  restore 
you  to  a  station  near  your  own  ;  I  would  have  told  you  that 
there  was  one  name  you  might  bestow  upon  me — a  right 
above  all  others,  to  protect  and  cherish  you — that  I  was 
worthy  of  in  nothing  but  the  love  and  honor  that  I  bore  you, 
and  in  my  whole  heart  of  being  yours.  I  would  have  told 
you  that  it  was  the  only  claim  that  you  could  give  me  to 
defend  and  guard  you,  which  I  dare  accept  and  dare  assert  ; 
but  that  if  I  had  that  right,  I  would  regard  it  as  a  trust  so 
precious  and  so  priceless,  that  the  undivided  truth  and 
fervor  of  my  life  would  poorly  acknowledge  its  worth." 

The  head  was  still  bent  down,  the  tears  still  falling,  and 
the  bosom  swelling  with  its  sobs. 

**  Dear  Florence  !  Dearest  Florence  !  whom  I  called  so 
in  my  thoughts  before  I  could  consider  how  presumptuous 
and  wild  it  was.  One  last  time  let  me  call  you  by  your  own 
dear  name,  and  touch  this  gentle  hand  in  token  of  your  sis- 
terly forgetfulness  of  what  I  said." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  7^9 

She  raised  her  head,  and  spoke  to  him  with  such  a  solemn 
sweetness  in  her  eyes  ;  with  such  a  cahii,  bright,  placid  smile 
shining  on  him  through  her  tears  ;  with  such  a  low,  soft 
V/emble  in  her  frame  and  voice  ;  that  the  innermost  chords 
of  his  heart  were  touched,  and  his  sight  was  dim  as  he  listened. 

"  No,  Walter,  I  can  not  forget  it.  I  would  not  forget  it, 
for  the  world.     Are  you — are  you  very  poor  ?" 

"  I  am  but  a  wanderer,"  said  Walter,  "  making  voyages  to 
live  across  the  sea.     That  is  my  calling  now." 

''  Are  you  soon  going  away  again,  Walter  ?" 

"Very  soon." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  timidly  put  her 
trembling  hand  in  his. 

"  If  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife,  Walter,  I  will  love  you 
dearly.  If  you  will  let  me  go  with  you,  Walter,  I  will  go  to 
the  world's  end  without  fear.  I  can  give  up  nothing  for 
you — I  have  nothing  to  resign,  and  no  one  to  forsake  ;  but 
all  my  love  and  life  shall  be  devoted  to  you,  and  with  my  last 
breath  I  will  breathe  your  name  to  God  if  I  have  sense  and 
memory  left." 

He  caught  her  to  his  heart,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  his 
own,  and  now,  no  more  repulsed,  no  more  forlorn,  she  wept 
indeed,  upon  the  breast  of  her  dear  lover. 

Blessed  Sunday  bells,  ringing  so  tranquilly  in  their  en- 
tranced and  happy  ears  !  Blessed  Sunday  peace  and  quiet, 
harmonizing  with  the  calmness  in  their  souls,  and  making 
holy  air  around  them  !  Blessed  twilight  stealing  on,  and 
shading  her  so  soothingly  and  gravely,  as  she  falls  asleep,  like 
a  hushed  child,  upon  the  bosom  she  has  clung  to  ! 

Oh  load  of  love  and  trustfulness  that  lies  so  lightly  there  ! 
Ay,  look  down  on  the  closed  eyes,  Walter,  with  a  proudly 
tender  gaze  ;  for  in  all  the  wide,  wide  world  they  seek  but 
thee  now — only  thee  ! 

The  captain  remained  in  the  little  parlor  until  it  was  quite 
dark.  He  took  the  chair  on  which  Walter  had  been  sitting, 
and  looked  up  at  the  sky-light,  until  the  day,  by  little  and 
little,  faded  away,  and  the  stars  peeped  down.  He  lighted 
a  candle,  lighted  a  pipe,  smoked  it  out,  and  wondered  what 
on  earth  was  going  on  up-stairs,  and  why  they  didn't  call 
him  to  tea. 

Florence  came  to  his  side  while  he  was  in  the  height  of 
his  wonderment. 

*'Ay!  lady  lass!"  cried  the  captain.  "Why,  you  and 
Wal'r  have  had  a  long  spell  o'  talk,  my  beauty." 


7IO  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

Florence  put  her  little  hand  round  one  of  the  great  but- 
tons of  his  coat,  and  said,  looking  down  into  his  face  : 

*'  Dear  captain,  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  if  you  please." 

The  captain  raised  his  head  pretty  smartly,  to  hear  what 
it  was.  Catching  by  this  means  a  more  distinct  view  of 
Florence,  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  and  himself  with  it  as 
far  as  they  could  go. 

"  What  !  Heart's  Delight !"  cried  the  captain,  suddenly 
elated.     "  Is  it  that  ?" 

"  Yes  !"  said  Florence,  eagerly,  '^ 

"  Wal'r  !  Husband  !  That  ?"  roared  the  captain,  tossing 
up  his  glazed  hat  into  the  sky-light. 

"Yes  !"  cried  Florence,  laughing  and  crying  together. 

The  captain  immediately  hugged  her  ;  and  then,  picking 
up  the  glazed  hat  and  putting  it  on,  drew  her  arm  through 
his,  and  conducted  her  up-stairs  agaiii ;  where  he  felt  that 
the  great  joke  of  his  life  was  now  to  be  made. 

"  What,  Wal'r,  my  lad  !"  said  the  captain,  looking  in  at 
the  door,  with  his  face  like  an  amiable  warming-pan.  ''  So 
there  ain't  no  other  character,  ain't  there  ?" 

He  had  liked  to  have  suffocated  himself  with  this  pleas- 
antry, which  he  repeated  at  least  forty  times  during  tea  : 
polishing  his  radiant  face  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and 
dabbing  his  head  all  over  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  in 
the  intervals.  But  he  was  not  without  a  graver  source  of 
enjoyment  to  fall  back  upon,  when  so  disposed,  for  he  was 
repeatedly  heard  to  say  in  an  undertone,  as  he  looked  with 
ineffable  delight  at  Walter  and  Florence  : 

"  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better  course 
in  your  life  than  when  you  made  that  there  little  property 
over  jintly  !" 

CHAPTER  LL 

MR.    DOMBEY    AND    THE    WORLD. 

What  is  the  proud  man  doing,  while  the  days  go  by  ? 
Does  he  ever  think  of  his  daughter,  or  wonder  where  she  is 
gone  ?  Does  he  suppose  she  has  come  home,  and  is  leading 
her  old  life  in  the  weary  house  ?  No  one  can  answer  for 
him.  He  has  never  uttered  her  name' since.  His  household 
dread  him  too  much  to  approach  a  subject  on  which  he  is 
resolutely  dumb;  and  the  only  person  who  dare  question  him, 
he  silences  immediately. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  711 

*'  My  dear  Paul  ! "  murmurs  his  sister,  sidling  into  the 
room,  on  the  day  of  Florence's  departure,  "  your  wife  !  that 
upstart  woman  !  Is  it  possible  that  what  I  hear  confusedly 
is  true,  and  that  this  is  her  return  for  your  unparalleled 
devotion  to  her  ;  extending,  I  am  sure,  even  to  the  sacrifice 
of  your  own  relations,  to  her  caprices  and  haughtiness  ?  My 
poor  brother  !  " 

With  this  speech,  feelingly  reminiscent  of  her  not  having 
been  asked  to  dinner  on  the  day  of  the  first  party,  Mrs. 
Chick  makes  great  use  of  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  falls 
on  Mr.  Dombey's  neck.  But  Mr.  Dombey  frigidly  lifts  her 
off,  and  hands  her  to  a  chair, 

"  I  thank  you,  Louisa,"  he  says,  "  for  this  mark  of  your 
affection,  but  desire  that  our  conversation  may  refer  to  any 
other  subject.  When  I  bewail  my  fate,  Louisa,  or  express 
myself  as  being  in  want  of  consolation,  you  can  offer  it,  if 
you  will  have  the  goodness." 

''  My  dear  Paul,"  rejoins  his  sister,  with  her  handkerchief 
to  her  face,  and  shaking  her  head,  "  I  know  your  great  spirit, 
and  will  say  no  more  upon  a  theme  so  painful  and  revolting  ;" 
on  the  heads  of  which  two  adjectives  Mrs.  Chick  visits 
scathing  indignation  ;  *'  but  pray  let  me  ask  you — though  I 
dread  to  hear  something  that  will  shock  and  distress  me — 
that  unfortunate  child  Florence — " 

"  Louisa  !  "  says  her  brother,  sternly,  "  silence.  Not 
another  word  of  this  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick  can  only  shake  her  head,  and  use  her  handker- 
chief, and  moan  over  degenerate  Dombeys,  who  are  no 
Dombeys.  But  whether  Florence  has  been  inculpated  in 
the  flight  of  Edith,  or  has  followed  her,  or  has  done  too 
much,  or  too  little,  or  any  thing,  or  nothing,  she  has  not  the 
least  idea. 

He  goes  on,  without  deviation,  keeping  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  close  within  his  own  breast,  and  imparting  them  to 
no  one.  He  makes  no  search  for  his  daughter.  He  may 
think  that  she  is  with  his  sister,  or  that  she  is  under  his  own 
roof.  He  may  think  of  her  constantly,  or  he  may  never 
think  about  her.     It  is  all  one  for  any  sign  he  makes. 

But  this  is  sure  ;  he  does  not  think  that  he  has  lost  her. 
He  has  no  suspicion  of  the  truth.  He  has  lived  too  long 
shut  up  in  his  towering  supremacy,  seeing  her,  a  patient, 
gentle  creature,  in  the  path  below  it,  to  have  any  fear  of 
that.  Shaken  as  he  is  by  his  disgrace,  he  is  not  yet  humbled 
to  the  level  earth.     The  root  is  broad  and  deep,  and  in  the 


712  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

course  of  years  its  fibers  have  spread  out  and  gathered 
nourishment  from  every  thing  round  it.  The  tree  is  struck, 
but  not  down. 

Though  he  hide  the  world  within  him  from  the  world 
without — which  he  believes  has  but  one  purpose  for  the 
time,  and  that,  to  watch  him  eagerly  wherever  he  goes — he 
can  not  hide  those  rebel  traces  of  it,  which  escape  in  hollow 
eyes  and  cheeks,  a  haggard  forehead,  and  a  moody,  brood- 
ing air.  Impenetrable  as  before,  he  is  still  an  altered  man  ; 
and,  proud  as  ever,  he  is  humbled,  or  those  marks  would  not 
be  there. 

The  world.  What  the  world  thinks  of  him,  how  it  looks 
at  him,  what  it  sees  in  him,  and  what  it  says — this  is  the 
haunting  demon  of  his  mind.  It  is  everywhere  where  he  is  ; 
and  worse  than  that,  it  is  everywhere  where  he  is  not.  It 
comes  out  with  him  among  his  servants,  and  yet  he  leaves  it 
whispering  behind  ;  he  sees  it  pointing  after  him  in  the 
street  ;  it  is  waiting  for  him  in  the  counting-house  ;  it  leers 
over  the  shoulders  of  rich  men  among  the  merchants  ;  it 
goes  beckoning  and  babbling  among  the  crowd  ;  it  always 
anticipates  him,  in  every  place,  and  is  always  busiest,  he 
knows,  when  he  has  gone  away.  When  he  is  shut  up  in  his 
room  at  night,  it  is  in  his  house,  outside  it,  audible  in  foot- 
steps on  the  pavement,  visible  in  print  upon  the  table,  steam- 
ing to  -and  fro  on  railroads  and  in  ships  ;  restless  and  busy 
everywhere,  with  nothing  else  but  him. 

It  is  not  a  phantom  of  his  imagination.  It  is  as  active 
in  other  people's  minds  as  in  his.  Witness  Cousin  Feenix, 
who  comes  from  Baden-Baden,  purposely  to  talk  to  him. 
Witness  Major  Bagstock,  who  accompanies  Cousin  Feenix 
on  that  friendly  mission. 

Mr.  Dombey  receives  them  with  his  usual  dignity,  and 
stands  erect,  in  his  old  attitude,  before  the  fire.  He  feels 
that  the  world  is  looking  at  him  out  of  their  eyes.  That  it 
is  in  the  stare  of  the  pictures.  That  Mr.  Pitt,  upon  the 
bookcase,  represents  it.  That  there  are  eyes  in  its  own 
map,  hanging  on  the  wall. 

'*  An  unusually  cold  spring,"  says  Mr.  Dombey — to 
deceive  the  world. 

^'  Damme,  sir,"  said  the  major,  in  the  warmth  of  friend- 
ship, "  Joseph  Bagstock  is  a  bad  hand  at  a  counterfeit.  If 
you  want  to  hold  your  friends  off,  Dombey,  and  to  give  them 
the  cold  shoulder,  J.  B.  is  not  the  man  for  your  purpose. 
Joe  is  rough  and  tough,  sir  ;    blunt,  sir,  blunt,  is  Joe.     His 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  713 

Royal  Highness  the  late  Duke  of  York  did  me  the  honor  to 
say,  deservedly  or  undeservedly — never  mind  that — '  If 
there  is  a  man  in  the  service  on  whom  I  can  depend  for 
coming  to  the  point,  that  man  is  Joe — Joe  Bagstock.'  " 

Mr.  Dombey  intimates  his  acquiescence. 

"  Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  I  am  a  man  of  the 
world.     Our  friend  Feenix — if  I  may  presume  to — " 

*'  Honored,  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix. 

** — is,"  proceeds  the  major,  with  a  wag  of  his  liead,  "  also 
a  man  of  the  world.  Dombey,  you  are  a  man  of  the  world. 
Now,  when  three  men  of  the  world  meet  together,  and  are 
friends — as  I  believe  " — again   appealing  to  Cousin  Feenix. 

"  I  am  sure,"  says  Cousin  Feenix,  "most  friendly." 

" — and  are  friends,"  resumes  the  major,  "Old  Joe's 
opinion  is  (J.  may  be  wrong),  that  the  opinion  of  the  world 
on  any  particular  subject  is  very  easily  got  at." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  says  Cousin  Feenix.  "  In  point  of  fact, 
it's  quite  a  self-evident  sort  of  thing.  I  am  extrem.ely  anx- 
ious, major,  that  my  friend  Dombey  should  hear  me  express 
my  very  great  astonishment  and  regret  that  my  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative,  who  was  possessed  of  every  qualifica- 
tion to  make  a  man  happy,  should  have  so  far  forgotten 
what  was  due  to — in  point  of  fact,  to  the  world — as  to  com- 
mit herself  in  such  a  very  extraordinary  manner.  I  have 
been  in  a  devilish  state  of  depression  ever  since  ;  and  said 
indeed  to  Long  Saxby  last  night — man  of  six  foot  ten,  with 
whom  my  friend  Dombey  is  probably  acquainted — that  it 
had  upset  me  in  a  confounded  way,  and  made  me  bilious. 
It  induces  a  man  to  reflect,  this  kind  of  fatal  catastrophe," 
savs  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  events  do  occur  in  quite  a  Provi- 
dential manner  ;  for  if  my  aunt  had  been  living  at  the  time, 
I  think  the  effect  upon  a  devilish  lively  woman  like  herself 
would  have  been  prostration,  and  that  she  would  have  fallen^ 
in  point  of  fact,  a  victim." 

"  Now,  Dombey —  !  "  says  the  major,  resuming  his  dis- 
course with  great  energy. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposes  Cousin  Feenix.  "Allow 
me  another  word.  ]My  friend  Dombey  will  permit  me  to 
sav,  that  if  anv  circumstance  could  have  added  to  the  most 
infernal  state  of  pain  in  which  I  find  myself  on  this  occasion, 
it  would  be  the  natural  amazement  of  the  world  at  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  (as  I  must  still  beg  leave  to  call 
her)being  supposed  to  have  so  committed  herself  with  a  per- 
son— man  with  white  teeth,  in  point  of  fact — of  very  inferior 


714  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

station  to  her  husband.  But  while  I  must,  rather  peremp- 
torily request  my  friend  Dombey  not  to  criminate  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative,  until  her  criminality  is  perfectly 
established,  I  beg  to  assure  my  friend  Dombey  that  the 
family  I  represent,  and  which  is  now  almost  extinct 
(devilish  sad  reflection  for  a  man),  will  interpose  no  obstacle 
in  his  way,  and  will  be  happy  to  assent  to  any  honorable 
course  of  proceeding,  with  a  view  to  the  future,  that  he  may 
point  out.  I  trust  my  friend  Dombey  will  give  me  credit 
for  the  intentions  by  which  I  am  animated  in  this  very  mel- 
ancholy affair,  and — a —  in  point  of  fact,  I  am  not  aware  that 
I  need  trouble  my  friend  Dombey  with  any  further  observa- 
tions." 

Mr.  Dombey  bows,  without   raising  his  eyes,  and  is  silent. 

"Now,  Dombey,"  says  the  niajor,  "our  friend  Feenix 
having,  with  an  amount  of  eloquence  that  old  Joe  B.  has 
never  heard  surpassed — no,  by  the  Lord,  sir  !  never  !  " — says 
the  major,  very  blue,  indeed,  and  grasping  his  cane  in  the 
middle — •"  stated  the  case  as  regards  the  lady,  I  shall  pre- 
sume upon  our  friendship,  Dombey,  to  offer  a  word  on 
another  aspect  of  it.  Sir,"  says  the  major,  with  the  horse's 
cough,  "  the  world  in  these  things  has  opinions,  which  must 
be  satisfied." 

"  I  know  it,"  rejoins  Mr.   Dombey. 

"  Of  course  you  know  it,  Dombey,"  says  the  major„ 
"  Damme,  sir,  I  know  you  know  it.  A  man  of  your  caliber 
is  not  likely  to  be  ignorant  of  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  replies  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Dombey,"  says  the  major,  "  you  will  guess  the  rest.  I 
speak  out — prematurely,  perhaps — because  the  Bagstock 
breed  have  always  spoken  out.  Little,  sir,  have  they  ever 
got  by  doing  it  ;  but  it's  in  the  Bagstock  blood.  A  shot  is 
to  be  taken  at  this  man.  You  have  J.  B.  at  your  elbow. 
He  claims  the  name  of  friend.     God  bless  you  !  " 

"  Major,"  returns  Mr.  Dombey,  "  I  am  obliged.  I  shall 
put  myself  in  your  hands  when  the  time  comes.  The  time 
not  being  come,  I  have  forborne  to  speak  to  you." 

"Where  is  the  fellow,  Dombey?"  inquires  the  major, 
after  gasping  and  looking  at  him  for  a  minute. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Any  intelligence  of  him  ?"  asked    the  major. 

"Yes." 

"  Dombey,  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  says  the  major.  "'  I 
congratulate  you." 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  715 

"You  will  excuse — even  you,  major,"  replies  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  "  my  entering  into  any  further  detail  at  present.  The 
intelligence  is  of  a  singular  kind,  and  singularly  obtained.  It 
may  turn  out  to  be  valueless  ;  it  may  turn  out  to  be  true  ; 
I  can  not  say  at  present.     My  explanation  must  stop  here." 

Although  this  is  but  a  dry  reply  to  the  major's  purple 
enthusiasm,  the  major  receives  it  graciously,  and  is  delighted 
to  think  that  the  world  has  such  a  fair  prospect  of  soon 
receiving  its  due.  Cousin  Feenix  is  then  presented  with  his 
meed  of  acknowledgment  by  the  husband  of  his  lovely  and 
accomplished  relative,  and  Cousin  Feenix  and  Major  Bag- 
stock  retire,  leaving  that  husband  to  the  world  again,  and 
to  ponder  at  leisure  on  their  representation  of  its  state  of 
mind  concerning  his  affairs,  and  on  its  just  and  reasonable 
expectations. 

But  who  sits  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  shedding  tears, 
and  talking  to  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  a  low  tone,  with  uplifted 
hands  ?  It  is  a  lady  with  her  face  concealed  in  a  very  close 
black  bonnet  which  appears  not  to  belong  to  her.  It  is  Miss 
Tox,  who  has  borrowed  this  disguise  from  her  servant,  and 
comes  from  Princess  Place  thus  secretly,  to  revive  her  old 
acquaintance  v/ith  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  order  to  get  certain 
information  of  the  state  of  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  How  does  he  bear  it,  my  dear  creature  ? "  asks  Miss  Tox. 

"Well,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  in  her  snappish  way,  "  he's 
pretty  much  as  usual." 

"  Externally,"  suggests  Miss  Tox.  "  But  what  he  feels 
vs'ithin  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  hard  gray  eye  looks  doubtful  as  she  answers, 
in  three  distinct  jerks,  ''  Ah  !    Perhaps.     I  suppose  so. 

"  To  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,"  says  I*^Irs.  PijDchin  ;  she 
still  calls  Miss  Tox  Lucretia,  on  account  of  having  made 
her  first  experiments  in  the  child-quelling  line  of  business 
on  that  lady  when  an  unfortunate  and  weazen  little  girl  of 
tender  years  ;  "  to  tell  you  my  mind,  Lucretia,  I  think 
it's  a  good  riddance.  I  don't  want  any  of  your  brazen  faces 
here,  myself  !  " 

"  Brazen,  indeed  !  Well  may  you  say  brazen,  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin !  "  returns  Miss  Tox.  *'  To  leave  him  !  Such  a  noble 
figure  of  a  man  !  "    And  here  Miss  Tox  is  overcome. 

"  I  don't  know  about  noble,  I'm  sure,"  observes  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  irascibly  rubbing  her  nose.  "  But  I  know  this — 
that  when  people  meet  with  trials,  they  must  bear  'em. 
Iloity  toity  !  I  have  had  enough  to  bear  myself,  in  my  time  ! 


7i6  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

What  a  fuss  there  is  !  She's  gone,  and  well  got  rid  of. 
Nobody  wants  her  back,  I  should  think  !  " 

This  hint  of  Peruvian  mines  causes  Miss  Tox  to  rise  to 
go  away,  when  Mrs.  Pipchin  rings  the  bell  for  Towlinson  to 
show  her  out.  Mr.  Towlinson,  not  having  seen  Miss  Tox 
for  ages,  grins,  and  hopes  she's  well  ;  observing  that  he 
didn't  know  her  at  first  in  that  bonnet. 

*'  Pretty  well,  Towlinson,  I  thank  you,"  says  Miss  Tox. 
'*  I  beg  you'll  have  the  goodness,  when  you  happen  to  see 
me  here,  not  to  mention  it.  My  visits  are  merely  to  Mrs. 
Pipchin." 

'*  Very  good,  miss,"  says  Towlinson. 

"  Shocking  circumstances  occur,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss 
Tox. 

^'  Very  much  so,  indeed,  miss,"  rejoins  Towlinson. 

"  I  hope,  Towlinson,"  says  Miss  Tox,  who,  in  her  instruc- 
tion of  the  Toodle  family,  has  acquired  an  admonitorial 
tone,  and  a  habit  of  improving  passing  occasions,  "  that 
what  has  happened  here  will  be  a  warning  to  you,  Towlin- 
son." 

"  Thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  says  Towlinson. 

He  appears  to  be  falling  into  a  consideration  of  the 
manner  in  which  this  warning  ought  to  operate  in  his  par- 
ticular case,  when  the  vinegary  Mrs.  Pipchin,  suddenly 
stirring  him  up  with  a  "  What  are  you  doing  !  Why  don't 
you  show  the  lady  to  the  door  !"  he  ushers  Miss  Tox  forth. 
As  she  passes  Mr.  Dombey's  room,  she  shrinks  into  the  in- 
most depths  of  the  black  bonnet,  and  walks  on  tiptoe  ;  and 
there  is  not  another  atom  in  the  world  which  haunts  him  so, 
that  feels  such  sorrow  and  solicitude  about  him,  as  Miss  Tox 
takes  out  under  the  black  bonnet  into  the  street,  and  triej 
to  carry  home   shadowed  from  the  newly-lighted  lamps. 

But  Miss  Tox  is  not  a  part  of  Mr.  Dombey's  world.  She 
comes  back  every  evening  at  dusk  ;  adding  clogs  and  an 
umbrella  to  the  bonnet  on  wet  nights  ;  and  bears  the  grins 
of  Towlinson,  and  the  huffs  and  rebuffs  of  Mrs.  Pipchin, 
and  all  to  ask  how  he  does,  and  how  he  bears  his  misfortune; 
but  she  has  nothing  to  do  with  Mr.  Dombey's  world. 
Exacting  and  harassing  as  ever,  it  goes  on  without  her  ;  and 
she,  a  by  no  means  bright  or  particular  star,  moves  in  her 
little  orbit  in  the  corner  of  another  system,  and  knows  it 
quite  well,  and  comes,  and  cries,  and  goes  away,  and  is 
satisfied.  Verily  Miss  Tox  is  easier  of  satisfaction  than  the 
world  that  troubles  Mr.  Dombey  so  much  ! 


DOMBEY    AND    SOX.  71? 

At  the  counting-house   the   clerks  discuss   the  great  dis- 
aster in  all  its  lights  and  shades,  but  chiefly  wonder  who  will 
get  Mr.  Carker's  place.     They  are  generally  of  opinion  that 
it   will   be    shorn    of    some   of  its    emoluments,    and  made 
uncomfortable  by  newly-devised  checks  and  restrictions;  and 
those  who   are  beyond   all  hope  of  it  are   quite   sure   they 
would  rather  not  have  it,  and   don't  at   all  envy  the  person 
for  whom  it  may  prove   to  be  reserved.     Nothing   like   the 
prevailing  sensation  has  existed   in  the  counting-house  since 
Mr.  Dombey's  little  son  died  ;  but  all  such  excitements  there 
take  a  social,  not  to  say  a  jovial   turn,  and  lead  to  the  culti- 
vation  of  good-fellowship.     A  reconciliation  is   established 
on  this  propitious  occasion  between  the  acknowledged  wit  of 
the  counting-house  and  an  aspiring  rival,  with  whom  he  has 
been  at   deadly  feud  for  months  ;  and  a  little  dinner  being 
proposed,    in    commemoration    of    their    happily    restored 
amity,  takes  place   at  a  neighboring  tavern  ;  the  wit  in  the 
chair  ;  the  rival    acting   as  vice-president.       The    orations 
following    the    removal    of    the  cloth    are    opened    by    the 
chair,  who  says,  gentlemen,  he  can't  disguise   from  himself 
that   this  is  not  the  time  for  private  dissensions.     Recent 
occurrences  to  which  he  need  not  more  particularly   allude, 
but  which  have  not  been  altogether  without  notice    in   some 
Sunday  papers,  and  in  a  daily  paper  which  he  need  not  name 
(here  every  other  member  of  the   company  names  it   in   an 
audible  murmur),  have  caused  him  to  refl'ect  ;  and  he   feels 
that  for  him  and  Robinson  to  have  any  personal   differences 
at  such  a  moment,  would  be  forever  to  deny  that  good  feel- 
ing in  the  general  cause  for  which  he  has  reason   to  think 
and  hope  that  the  gentlemen  in  Dombey's  house  have  always 
been  distinguished.     Robinson  replies  "to  this  like  a  man  and 
a  brother  ;  and    one   gentleman  who   has  been  in  the  office 
three  years,  under  continual  notice  to  quit  on  account  of 
lapses  in  his  arithmetic,  appears,  in  a  perfectly  new  light, 
suddenly  bursting  out  with  a   thrilling  speech,  in  which  he 
says,  mav  their  respected  chief  never   again  know  the  deso- 
lation which   has  fallen  on  his   hearth  !    and  says  a    great 
variety  of   things,  beginning  with,  "  May  he   never  again," 
which  are  received  with  thunders  of  applause.     In  short,_  a 
most  delightful  evening  is  passed,  only  interrupted  by  a  dif- 
ference between  two  juniors,  who,  quarreling  about  the  prob- 
able amount  of  Mr.  Carker's  late  receipts  per  annum,  defy 
each  other  with  decanters,  and  are  taken  out  greatly  excited. 
Soda-water  is  in  general  request  at  the  office  next  day,  and 
most  of  the  party  deem  the  bill  an  imposition. 


7i8  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

As  to  Perch,  the  messenger,  he  is  in  a  fair  way  of  being 
ruined  for  life.  He  finds  himself  again  constantly  in  bars  of 
public-houses,  being  treated  and  lying  dreadfully.  It  appears 
that  he  met  every  body  concerned  in  the  late  transact 
tion  everywhere,  and  said  to  them,  "  Sir,"  or  "  Madam,"  as 
the  case  was,  "why  do  you  look  so  pale  ?"  at  which  each 
shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  and  said,  "  Oh  Perch!  "  and  ran 
away.  Either  the  consciousness  of  these  enormities,  or  the 
reaction  consequent  on  liquor,  reduces  Mr.  Perch  to  an 
extreme  state  of  low  spirits  at  that  hour  of  the  evening  when 
he  usually  seeks  consolation  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Perch  at 
Ball's  Pond  ;  and  Mrs.  Perch  frets  a  good  deal,  for  she  fears 
his  confidence  in  woman  is  shaken  now,  and  that  he  half 
expects,  on  coming  home  at  night,  to  find  her  gone  off  with 
some  viscount. 

Mr.  Dombey's  servants  are  becoming,  at  the  same  time, 
quite  dissipated,  and  unfit  for  other  service.  They  have  hot 
suppers  every  night,  and  "  talk  it  over,"  with  smoking  drinks 
upon  the  board.  Mr.  Towlinson  is  always  maudlin  after 
half-past  ten,  and  frequently  begs  to  knov/  whether  he  didn't 
say  that  no  good  would  ever  come  of  living  in  a  corner 
house?  They  whisper  about  Miss  Florence,  and  wonder 
where  she  is  ;  but  agree  that  if  Mr.  Dombey  don't  know, 
Mrs.  Dombey  does.  This  brings  them  to  the  latter,  of  whom 
cook  says.  She  had  a  stately  way  though,  hadn't  she  ?  But 
she  was  too  high  !  They  all  agree  that  she  was  too  high, 
and  Mr.  Towlinson's  old  flame,  the  house-maid  (who  is  very 
virtuous),  entreats  that  you  will  never  talk  to  her  any  more 
about  people  who  hold  their  heads  up  as  if  the  ground  wasn't 
good  enough  for  'em. 

Every  thing  that  is  said  and  done  about  it,  except  by  Mr. 
Dombey,  is  done  in  chorus.  Mr.  Dombey  and  the  world  are 
alone  together. 

CHAPTER  LH. 

SECRET    INTELLIGENCE. 

Good  Mrs.  Brown  and  her  daughter  Alice  kept  silent 
company  together  in  their  own  dwelling.  It  was  early  in  the 
evening,  and  late  in  the  spring.  But  a  few  days  had  elapsed 
since  Mr.  Dombey  had  told  Major  Bagstock  of  his  singular 
intelligence,  singularly  obtained,  which  might  turn  out  to  be 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  719 

valueless,  and  might  turn  out  to  be  true  ;  and  the  world  was 
not  satisfied  yet. 

The  mother  and  daughter  sat  for  a  long  time  without  inter- 
changing a  word  ;  almost  without  motion.  The  old 
woman's  face  was  shrewdly  anxious  and  expectant  ;  that  of 
her  daughter  was  expectant  too,  but  in  a  less  sharp  degree, 
and  sometimes  it  darkened,  as  if  with  gathering  disappoint- 
ment and  incredulity.  The  old  woman,  without  heeding 
these  changes  in  its  expression,  though  her  eyes  were  often 
turned  toward  it,  sat  mumbling  and  munching,  and  listen- 
ing confidently. 

Their  abode,  though  poor  and  miserable,  was  not  so 
utterly  wretched  as  in  the  days  when  only  good  Mrs.  Brown 
inhabited  it.  Some  few  attempts  at  cleanliness  and  order 
were  manifest,  though  made  in  a  reckless,  gipsy  way,  that 
might  have  connected  them,  at  a  glance,  with  the  younger 
woman.  The  shades  of  evening  thickened  and  deepened  as 
the  two  kept  silence,  until  the  blackened  walls  were  nearly 
lost  in  the  prevailing  gloom. 

Then  Alice  broke  the  silence  which  had  lasted  so  long 
and  said: 

"  You  may  give  him  up,  mother.     He'll  not  come  here." 

"  Death  give  him  up  !  "  returned  the  old  woman,  impa- 
tiently.    "  He  ivill  come  here." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Alice. 

"  We  shall  see  him^  returned  her  mother. 

"  And  doomsday,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  You  think  I'm  in  my  second  childhood,  I  know  !  " 
croaked  the  old  woman.  "  That's  the  respect  and  duty  that 
I  get  from  my  own  gal,  but  I'm  wiser  than  you  take 
me  for.  He'll  come.  T'other  day  when  I  touched  his  coat  in 
the  street,  he  looked  round  as  if  I  was  a  toad.  But  Lord,  to 
see  him  when  I  said  their  names,  and  asked  him  if  he'd  like 
to  find  out  where  they  was  !  " 

"  Was  it  so  angry  ?  "  asked  her  daughter,  roused  to  interest 
in  a  moment. 

**  Angry  ?  ask  if  it  was  bloody.  That's  more  like  the 
word.  Angry  ?  Ha,  ha  !  To  call  that  only  angry  !  "  said 
the  old  woman,  hobbling  to  the  cupboard  and  lighting  a 
candle,  which  displayed  the  workings  of  her  mouth  to  ugly 
advantage  as  she  brought  it  to  the  table.  "  I  m_ight  as  well 
call  your  face  only  angry  when  you  think  or  talk  about  'em." 

It  was  something  different  from  that,  truly,  as  she  sat  as 
Still  as  a  crouched  tigress,  with  her  kindling  eyes. 


720  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  triumphantly.  "  I  hear  a 
step  coming.  It's  not  the  tread  of  any  one  that  lives  about 
here,  or  comes  this  way  often.  We  don't  walk  like  that. 
We  should  grow  proud  on  such  neighbors  !  Do  you  hear 
him  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  mother,"  replied  Alice  in  a  low 
voice.     "Peace  !  open  the  door." 

As  she  drew  herself  within  her  shawl,  and  gathered  it 
about  her,  the  old  woman  complied  ;  and  peering  out,  and 
beckoning,  gave  admission  to  Mr.  Dombey,  who  stopped, 
when  he  had  set  his  foot  within  the  door,  and  looked  dis- 
trustfully around. 

"  It's  a  poor  place  for  a  great  gentleman  like  your 
worship,"  said  the  old  woman,  courtesying  and  chattering. 
"I  told  you  so,  but  there's  no  harm  in  it." 

"  Who  is  that  ?"  asked  Mr.  Dombey,  looking  at  her  com- 
panion. 

"  That's  my  handsome  daughter,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  Your  worship  won't  mind  her.     She  knows  all  about  it." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  his  face  not  less  expressive  than  if  he 
had  groaned  aloud,  "  Who  does  not  know  all  about  it  !"  but 
he  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  she,  without  any  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  presence,  looked  at  him.  The  shadow  on  his 
face  was  darker  when  he  turned  his  glance  away  from  her  ; 
and  even  then  it  wandered  back  again  furtively,  as  if  he 
were  haunted  by  her  bold  eyes,  and  some  remembrance  they 
inspired. 

"Woman,"  said  Mr.  Dombey  to  the  old  witch  who  was 
chuckling  and  leering  close  at  his  elbow,  and  who,  when  he 
turned  to  address  her,  pointed  stealthily  at  her  daughter,  and 
rubbed  her  hands,  and  pointed  again,  "  Woman  !  I  believe 
that  I  am  weak  and  forgetful  of  my  station  in  coming  here, 
but  you  know  why  I  come,  and  what  you  offered  when  you 
stopped  me  in  the  street  the  other  day.  What  is  it  that  you 
have  to  tell  me  concerning  what  I  want  to  know  ?  and  how 
does  it  happen  that  I  can  find  voluntary  intelligence  in  a 
hovel  like  this,"  with  a  disdainful  glance  about  him,  "  when 
I  have  exerted  my  power  and  means  to  obtain  it  in  vain  ?  I 
do  not  think,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  pause,  during  which 
he  had  observed  her  sternly,  "  that  you  are  so  audacious  as 
to  mean  to  trifle  with  me,  or  endeavor  to  impose  upon  me. 
But  if  you  have  that  purpose,  you  had  better  stop  on  the 
threshold  of  your  scheme.  My  humor  is  not  a  trifling  one, 
and  my  acknowledgment  will  be  severe." 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  721 

"  Oh,  a  proud,  hard  gentleman  !"  chuckled  the  old  woman, 
shaking  her  head,  and  rubbing  her  shriveled  hands,  "  oh, 
kard,  hard,  hard  !  But  your  worship  shall  see  with  your  own 
eyes  and  hear  with  your  own  ears  ;  not  with  ours — and  if 
your  worship's  put  upon  their  track,  you  won't  mind  paying 
something  for  it,  will  you,  honorable  deary  ?" 

"  Money,"  returned  Mr.  Dombey,  apparently  relieved,  and 
re-assured  by  this  inquiry,  **  will  bring  about  unlikely  things, 
I  know.  It  may  turn  even  means  as  unexpected  and  un- 
promising as  these  to  account.  Yes.  For  any  reliable 
information  I  receive,  I  will  pay.  But  I  must  have  the 
information  first,  and  judge  for  myself  of  its  value." 

"  Do  you  know  nothing  more  powerful  than  money  ?" 
asked  the  younger  woman,  without  rising,  or  altering  her 
attitude. 

"  Not  here,  I  should  imagine,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  You  should  know  of  something  that  is  more  powerful 
elsewhere,  as  I  judge,"  she  returned.  **  Do  you  know 
nothing  of  a  woman's  anger  ?" 

"  You  have  a  saucy  tongue,  jade,"  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Not  usually,"  she  answered,  without  any  show  of 
emotion  :  "  I  speak  to  you  now,  that  you  may  understand  us 
better,  and  rely  more  on  us.  A  woman's  anger  is  pretty 
much  the  same  here  as  in  your  fine  house.  1  am  angry.  I 
have  been  so  many  years.  I  have  as  good  cause  for  my 
anger  as  you  have  for  yours,  and  its  object  is  the  same 
man." 

He  started,  in  spite  of  himself,  and  looked  at  her  with 
astonishment. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  kind  of  laugh.  "  Wide  as  the 
distance  may  seem  between  us,  it  is  so.  How  it  is  so,  is  no 
matter  ;  that  is  my  story,  and  I  keep  my  story  to  myself.  I 
would  bring  you  and  him  together,  because  I  have  a  rage 
against  him.  My  mother  there  is  avaricious  and  poor  ;  and 
she  would  sell  any  tidings  she  could  glean,  or  any  thing,  or 
any  body,  for  money.  It  is  fair  enough,  perhaps,  that  you 
should  pay  her  some,  if  she  can  help  you  to  what  you  want 
to  know.  But  thai  is  not  my  motive.  I  have  told  you  what 
mine  is,  and  it  would  be  as  strong  and  all-sufficient  with  me 
if  you  haggled  and  bargained  with  her  for  a  sixpence.  I 
have  done.  My  saucy  tongue  says  no  more,  if  you  wait 
here  till  sunrise  to-morrow." 

The  old  woman,  who  had  shown  great  uneasiness  during 
this  speech,  which  had  a  tendency  to  depreciate  her  expected 


722  DGMBEY   AND   SON. 

gains,  pulled  Mr.  Dombey  softly  by  the  sleeve,  and  whis- 
pered to  him  not  to  mind  her.  He  glanced  at  them  both 
by  turns  with  a  haggard  look,  and  said,  in  a  deeper  voice 
than  was  usual  with  him  : 

"  Go  on — what  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  so  fast,  your  worship  !  we  must  wait  for 
some  one,"  answered  the  old  woman.  "  It's  to  be 
got  from  some  one  else — wormed  out — screwed  and 
twisted  from  him." 

''  What  do  you  mean  ? "  said  Mr.  Dombey. 

"  Patience,"  she  croaked,  laying  her  hand,  like  a  claw, 
upon  his  arm.  "  Patience.  I'll  get  at  it.  I  know  I  can  ! 
If  he  was  to  hold  it  back  from  me,"  said  good  Mrs. 
Brown,  crooking  her  ten  fingers,  "  I'd  tear  it  out  of 
him  !  " 

Mr.  Dombey  followed  her  with  his  eyes  as  she  hobbled  to 
the  door,  and  looked  out  again,  and  then  his  glance  sought 
her  daughter  ;  but  she  remained  impassive,  silent,  and 
regardless  of  him. 

"  Do  you  tell  me,  woman,"  he  said,  when  the  bent 
figure  of  Mrs.  Brown  came  back,  shaking  its  head  and 
chattering  to  itself,  "  that  there  is  another  person  expected 
here  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  old  woman,  looking  up  into  his  face 
and  nodding. 

"  From  whom  you  are  to  exact  the  intelligence  that  is  to 
be  useful  to  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  nodding  again, 

"  A  stranger  ?  " 

"  Chut !  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  shrill  laugh.  "  What 
signifies  !  Well,  well  ;  no.  No  stranger  to  your  worship. 
But  he  won't  see  you.  He'd  be  afraid  of  you,  and  wouldn't 
talk.  You'll  stand  behind  that  door,  and  judge  him  for 
yourself.  We  don't  ask  to  be  believed  on  trust.  What  ! 
Your  worship  doubts  the  room  behind  the  door  ?  Oh, 
the  suspicion  of  you  rich  gentlefolks  !  Look  at  it, 
then." 

Her  sharp  eye  had  detected  an  involuntary  expression  of 
this  feeling  on  his  part,  which  was  not  unreasonable  under 
the  circumstances.  In  satisfaction  of  it,  she  now  took  the 
candle  to  the  door  she  spoke  of.  Mr.  Dombey  looked  in  ; 
assured  himself  that  it  was  an  empty,  crazy  room  ;  and 
signed  to  her  to  put  the  light  back  in  its  place. 

"  How  long,"  he  asked,  "  before  this  person  comes  ?  " 


D.   I.  J.   O.  N. 


'        »    »    >     .  3 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  723 

*'  Not  long,"  she  answered.  "  Would  your  worship  sit 
down  for  a  few  odd  minutes  ?  " 

He  made  no  answer,  but  began  pacing  the  room  with  an 
irresolute  air,  as  if  he  were  undecided  whether  to  remain  or 
depart,  and  as  if  he  had  some  quarrel  with  himself  for  being 
there  at  all.  But  soon  his  tread  grew  slower  and  heavier, 
and  his  face  more  sternly  thoughtful;  as  the  object  with 
which  he  had  come  fixed  itself  in  his  mind,  and  dilated 
there  again. 

While  he  thus  walked  up  and  down  with  his  eyes  on  the 
ground,  Mrs.  Brown,  in  the  chair  from  which  she  had  risen 
to  receive  him,  sat  listening  anew.  The  monotony  of  his 
step  or  the  uncertainty  of  age,  made  her  so  slow  of  hearing, 
that  a  footfall  without  had  sounded  in  her  daughter's  ears  for 
some  moments,  and  she  had  looked  up  hastily  to  warn  her 
mother  of  its  approach,  before  the  old  w^oman  was  roused  by 
it.  But  then  she  started  from  her  seat,  and  whispering 
"  Here  he  is  !  "  hurried  her  visitor  to  his  place  of  observa- 
tion, and  put  a  bottle  and  glass  on  the  table,  with  such  alac- 
rity as  to  be  ready  to  fling  her  arms  around  the  neck  of  Rob 
the  Grinder  on  his  appearance  at  the  door. 

"And  here's  my  bonny  boy,"  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  '*  at  last! 
— oho,  oho!     You're  like  my  own  son,  Robby  !  " 

"  Oh  !  Misses  Brown  !  "  remonstrated  the  grinder. 
"  Don't.  Can't  you  be  fond  of  a  cove  without  squeedging 
and  throttling  of  him!  Take  care  of  the  bird-cage  in  my 
hand,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Thinks  of  a  bird-cage  afore  me  !  "  cried  the  old  woman, 
apostrophizing  the  ceiling.  "  Me  that  feels  more  than  a 
mother  for  him  ? " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Misses 
Brown,"  said  the  unfortunate  youth,  greatly  aggravated;  "  but 
you're  so  jealous  of  a  cove.  I'm  very  fond  of  you  myself, 
and  all  that,  of  course  ;  but  I  don't  smother  you,  do  I, 
Misses  Brown  ? " 

He  looked  and  spoke  as  if  he  would  have  been  far  from 
objecting  to  do  so,  however,  on  a  favorable  occasion. 

"  And  to  talk  about  bird-cages,  too  !  "  whimpered  the 
grinder.  "  As  if  that  was  a  crime  !  Why,  lookee  here  ! 
Do  you  know  who  this  belongs  to  ?  " 

"  To  master,  dear  ?  "  said  the  old  woman,  with  a  grin. 

"  Ah!  "  replied  the  grinder,  lifting  a  large  cage  tied  up  in 
a  wrapper  on  the  table,  and  untying  it  v/ith  his  teeth  and 
hands.     "  It's  our  parrot,  this  is," 


724  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Mr.  Carker's  parrot,  Rob  ?" 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Misses  ~Brown  ?"  returned 
the  goaded  grinder.  "  What  do  you  go  naming  names  for  ? 
I'm  blest,"  said  Rob,  pulling  his  hair  with  both  hands,  in 
the  exasperation  of  his  feelings,  "  if  she  ain't  enough  to  make 
a  cove  run  wild  ! " 

"  What!  Do  you  snub  me,  thankless  boy  !  "  cried  the  old 
woman,  with  ready  vehemence. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  no  ! "  returned  the 
grinder,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Was  there  ever  such  a — ! 
Don't  I  dote  upon  you,  Misses  Brown  ?  " 

"  Do  you,  sweet  Rob  ?  Do  you  truly,  chickabiddy  ? " 
With  that  Mrs.  Brown  held  him  in  her  fond  embrace  once 
more;  and  did  not  release  him  until  he  had  made  several 
violent  and  ineffectual  struggles  with  his  legs,  and  his  hair 
was  standing  on  end  all  over  his  head. 

"  Oh  !  "  returned  the  grinder,  "  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be 
perfectly  pitched  into  with  affection  like  this  here.  I  wish 
she  was — .     How  have  you  been.  Misses  Brown  ? " 

"Ah!  Not  here  since  this  night  week!  "said  the  old 
woman,  contemplating  him  with  a  look  of  reproach. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  grinder,  "I 
said  to-night's  a  week,  that  I'd  come  to-night,  didn't  I  ? 
And  here  I  am.  How  you  do  go  on!  I  wish  you'd  be  a  little 
rational.  Misses  Brown.  I'm  hoarse  with  saying  things  in 
my  defense,  and  my  very  face  is  shiny  with  being  hugged." 
He  rubbed  it  hard  with  his  sleeve,  as  if  to  remove  the  ten- 
der polish  in  question, 

"  Drink  a  little  drop  to  comfort  you,  my  Robin,"  said  the 
old  woman,  filling  the  glass  from  the  bottle  and  giving  it  to 
him. 

''  Thankee,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  grinder.  "  Here's 
your  health.  And  long  may  you — et  ceterer."  Which,  to 
judge  from  the  expression  of  his  face,did  not  include  any  very 
choice  blessing.  "  x^nd  here's  her  health,"  said  the  grinder, 
glancing  at  Alice,  who  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed,  as  it  seemed 
to  him,  on  the  wall  behind  him,  but  in  reality  on  Mr.  Dom- 
bey's  face  at  the  door,  "  and  wishing  her  the  same  and  many 
of  'em." 

He  drained  the  glass  to  these  two  sentiments,  and  set  it 
down. 

"  Well,  I  say.  Misses  Brown,"  he  proceeded.  "  To  go  on 
a  little  rational  now.  You're  a  judge  of  birds,  and  up  to 
their  ways^  as  I  know  to  my  cost." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7*5 

*'  Cost  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Brown. 

"Satisfaction,  I  mean,"  returned  the  grinder.  "How 
you  do  take  up  a  cove,  Misses  Brown!  You've  put  it  all 
out  of  my  head  again." 

"  Judge  of  birds,  Robby,"  suggested  the  old  woman. 
"Ah!  "  said  the  grinder.  "Well,  I've  got  to  take  care  of 
this  parrot — certain  things  being  sold,  and  a  certain  estab- 
lishment broken  up — and  as  I  don't  want  no  notice  took  at 
present,  I  wish  you'd  attend  to  her  for  a  week  or  so,  and 
give  her  board  and  lodging,  will  you  ?  If  I  ww^Y  come  back- 
ward and  forward,"  mused  the  grinder,  with  a  dejected  face, 
"  I  may  as  well  have  something  to  come  for." 

"  Something  to  come  for  ?  "  screamed  the  old  woman. 
"  Besides  you,  I  mean,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  craven 
Rob.     "  Not    that    I    want   any   inducement   but   yourself, 
Misses  Brown,  I  am  sure.     "Oon't  begin  again,  for  goodness' 
sake." 

"  He  don't  care  for  me!  He  don't  care  for  me  as  I  care 
for  him!  "  cried  Mrs.  Brown,  lifting  up  her  skinny  hands. 
"  But  I'll  take  care  of  his  bird." 

"  Take  good  care  of  it  too,  you  know,  Misses  Brown,"  said 
Rob,  shaking  his  head.  "  If  you  was  so  much  as  to  stroke 
its  feathers  once  the  wrong  way,  I  believe  it  would  be 
found  out." 

"  Ah,  so  sharp  as  that,  Rob  ? "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  quickly. 
"  Sharp,  Misses  Brown  !  "  repeated  Rob.     "  But  this  is  not 
to  be  talked  about." 

Checking  himself  abruptly,  and  not  without  a  fearful 
glance  across  the  room,  Rob  filled  the  glass  again,  and  hav- 
ing slowly  emptied  it,  shook  his  head,  and  began  to  draw 
his  fingers  across  and  across  the  wires  of  the  parrot's  cage 
by  way  of  a  diversion  from  the  dangerous  theme  that  had 
just  been  broached. 

The  old  woman  eyed  him  slyly,  and  hitching  her  chair 
nearer  his,  and  looking  in  at  the    parrot,  who    came   dov/n 
from  the  gilded  dome  at  her  call,  said  : 
"  Out  of  place  now,  Robby  ? " 

"  Never ^'(?2^  mind,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  grinder, 
shortly. 

"  Board  wages,  perhaps,  Rob  ? "  said  Mrs.  Brown. 
"  Pretty  Polly  !  "  said  the  grinder. 

The  old  woman  darted  a  glance  at  him  that  niight  have 
warned  him  to  consider  his  ears  in  danger,  but  it  was  his 
turn  to  look  in  at  the  parrot  now,  and,   however   expressive 


726  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

his  imagination  may  have   made   her   angry   scowl,  it  v/a,s 
unseen  by  his  bodily  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  master  didn't  take  you  with  him,  Rob,"  said 
the  old  woman,  in  a  wheedling  voice,  but  with  increased 
malignity  of  aspect. 

Rob  was  so  absorbed  in  contemplation  of  the  parrot, 
and  in  trolling  his  forefinger  on  the  wires,  that  he  made  no 
answer. 

The  old  woman  had  her  clutch  within  a  hair's-breadth  of 
his  shock  of  hair  as  it  stooped  over  the  table  ;  but  she 
restrained  her  fingers,  and  said,  in  a  voice  that  choked  with 
its  efforts  to  be  coaxing  : 

"  Robby,  my  child." 

"  Well,  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  grinder. 

"  I  say  I  wonder  master  didn't  take  you  with  him, 
dear." 

*'  Never  j^z^  mind.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  grin- 
der. 

Mrs.  Brown  instantly  directed  the  clutch  of  her  right  hand 
at  his  hair,  and  the  clutch  of  her  left  hand  at  his  throat,  and 
held  on  to  the  object  of  her  fond  affection  with  such 
extraordinary  fury  that  his  face  began  to  blacken  in  a 
moment. 

"  Misses  Brown  !"  exclaimed  the  grinder,  "  let  go,  will 
you  !  What  are  you  doing  of  !  Help,  young  woman  ! 
Misses  Brow — Brow — !  " 

The  young  woman,  however,  equally  unmoved  by  his 
direct  appeal  to  her,  and  by  his  inarticulate  utterance, 
rem.ained  quite  neutral,  until,  after  struggling  with  his 
assailant  into  a  corner,  Rob  disengaged  himself,  and  stood 
there  panting  and  fenced  in  by  his  own  elbows,  while  the  old 
woman,  panting  too,  and  stamping  with  rage  and  eagerness, 
appeared  to  be  collecting  her  energies  for  another  swoop 
upon  him.  At  this  crisis  Alice  interposed  her  voice,  but 
not  in  the  grinder's  favor,  by  saying  : 

**  Well  done,  mother.     Tear  him  to  pieces  !  " 

^'  What,  young  woman  !  "  blubbered  Rob  ;  "  are  you 
against  me  too  !  What  have  I  been  and  done  ?  What  am  I 
to  be  tore  to  pieces  for,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  Why  do  you 
take  and  choke  a  cove  who  has  never  done  you  any  harm, 
neither  of  you  ?  Call  yourselves  females,  too  I "  said  the 
frightened  and  afflicted  grinder,  with  his  coat-cuff  at  his 
eye.  ''  I'm  surprised  at  you  !  Where's  your  feminine 
tenderness  ? " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  7«7 

**  You  thankless  dog!"  gasped  Mrs.  Biown.  "You 
impudent,  insulting  dog  !  " 

"  What  have  I  been  and  done  to  give  you  offense,  Misses 
Brown  ? "  retorted  the  tearful  Rob.  "  You  was  very  much 
attached  to  me  a  minute  ago." 

"  To  cut  me  off  with  his  short  answers  and  his  sulky 
words,"  said  the  old  woman.  "Me!  Because  I  happen  to 
be  curious  to  have  a  little  bit  of  gossip  about  master  and  the 
lady,  to  dare  to  play  at  fast  and  loose  with  me!  But  I'll  talk 
to  you  no  more,  my  lad.     Now  go! " 

"  I'm  sure.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the  abject  grinder, 
"  I  never  insiniwated  that  I  wished  to  go.  Don't  talk  like 
that,  Misses  Brown,  if  you  please." 

"  I  won't  talk  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  with  an  action  of 
her  crooked  fingers  that  made  him  shrink  into  half  his  natu- 
ral compass  in  the  corner.  "  Not  another  word  with  him 
shall  pass  my  lips.  He's  an  ungrateful  hound.  I  cast  him 
off.  Now  let  him  go!  And  I'll  slip  those  after  him  that 
ohali  talk  too  much;  that  won't  be  shook  away;  that'll  hang 
tO  him  like  leeches,  and  slink  arter  him  like  foxes.  What! 
He  knows  'em.  He  knows  his  old  games  and  his  old  VN^ays. 
If  he's  forgotten  'em,  they'll  soon  remind  him.  Now  let  him 
go,  and  see  how  he'll  do  master's  business,  and  keep  master's 
secrets,  with  such  company  always  following  him  up  and 
down.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  He'll  find  'em  a  different  sort  from 
you  and  me.  Ally,  close  as  he  is  with  you  and  me.  Now  lei 
him  go,  now  let  him  go!  " 

The  old  woman,  to  the  unspeakable  dismay  of  the  grinder, 
walked  her  twisted  figure  round  and  round,  in  a  ring  of  some 
four  feet  in  diameter,  constantly  repeating  these  words,  and 
shaking  her  fist  above  her  head.,  and  working  her  mouth 
about. 

"  Misses  Brown,"  pleaded  Rob,  coming  a  little  out  of  his 
corner,  ''  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  injure  a  cove,  on  second 
thoughts,  and  in  cold  blood,  would  you  ?" 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  still  wrathfully  pur- 
suing her  circle.     "  Now  let  him  go,  now  let  him  go  !  *' 

"  Misses  BroAVii,"  urged  the  tormented  grinder,  "  I  didn't 
mean  to —  Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  for  a  cove  to  get  into  such 
a  line  as  this  ! — I  was  only  careful  of  talking,  ]\Iisses  Brown, 
because  I  always  am,  on  account  of  his  being  up -to  every- 
thing ;  but  I  might  have  known  it  wouldn't  have  gone  any 
further.    I'm  sure  I'm  quite  agreeable,"  with  a  wretched  face^ 

for  any  little  bit  of  gossip.  Misses  Brown.     Don't  go  on  like 


72g  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

this,  if  you  please.  Oh,  couldn't  you  have  the  goodnes*  to 
put  in  a  word  for  a  miserable  cove,  here  ?  "  said  the  grinder, 
appealing  in  desperation  to  the  daughter. 

"  Come,  mother,  you  hear  what  he  says,"  she  interposed, 
in  her  stern  voice,  and  with  an  impatient  action  of  her  head; 
"  try  him  once  more,  and  if  you  fall  out  with  him  again,  ruin 
him,  if  you  like,  and  have  done  with  him." 

Mrs.  Brown,  moved  as  it  seemed  by  this  very  tender 
exhortation,  presently  began  to  howl  ;  and,  softening  by 
degrees,  took  the  apologetic  grinder  to  her  arms,  who  em- 
braced her  with  a  face  of  unutterable  woe,  and,  like  a  victim 
as  he  was,  resumed  his  former  seat,  close  by  the  side  of  his 
venerable  friend,  whom  he  suffered,  not  without  much  con- 
strained sweetness  of  countenance,  combating  very  expressive 
physiognomical  revelations  of  an  opposite  character,  to  draw 
his  arm  through  hers,  and  keep  it  there. 

"  And  how's  master,  deary  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  when, 
sitting  in  this  amicable  posture,  they  had  pledged  each  other. 

"  Hush  !  If  you'd  be  so  good,  Misses  Brown,  as  to  speak 
a  little  lower,"  Rob  implored.  "Why,  he's  pretty  well, 
thankee,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  not  out  of  place,  Robby  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Brown,  in  a 
wheedling  tone. 

"  Why,  I'm  not  exactly  out  of  place,  nor  in,"  faltered  Rob. 
^*  I — I'm  still  in  pay,  Misses  Brown." 

"  And  nothing  to  do,  Rob  ?" 

"  Nothing  particular  to  do  just  now.  Misses  Brown,  but  to 
— keep  my  eyes  open,"  said  the  grinder,  rolling  them  in  a 
forlorn  way. 

"  Master  abroad,  Rob  ?  " 

"  Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  Misses  Brown,  couldn't  you  gos 
sip  with  a  cove  about  any  thing  else  ? "  cried  the  grinder,  in 
a  burst  of  despair. 

The  impetuous  Mrs.  Brown,  rising  directly,  the  tortured 
grinder  detained  her,  stammering  "  Ye-es,  Misses  Brown,  I 
believe  he's  abroad.  What's  she  staring  at  ?  "  he  added,  in 
allusion  to  the  daughter,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the 
face  that  now  again  looked  out  behind  him. 

"  Don't  mind  her,  lad,"  said  the  old  woman,  holding  him 
closer  to  prevent  his  turning  round.  ''  It's  her  way — her 
way.     Tell  me,  Rob.     Did  you  ever  see   the  lady,  deary  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Misses  Brown,  what  lady?"  cried  the  grinder,  in  a 
tone  of  piteous  supplication. 

*'  What  lady  ?  "  she  retorted.  "  The  lady  ;  Mrs.  Dombey." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  729 

"  Yes,'  I  believe  I  see  her  once,"  replied  Rob. 

"  The  night  she  went  away,  Robby,  eh  ?  "  said  the  old 
woman  in  his  ear,  and  taking  note  of  every  change  in  his 
face.     "  Aha  !     I  know  it  was  that  night." 

'*  Well,  if  you  know  it  was  that  night,  you  know,  Misses 
Brown,"  replied  Rob,  "  it's  no  use  putting  pinchers  into  a 
cove  to  make  him  say  so." 

"  Where  did  they  go  that  night,  Rob  ?  Straight  away  ! 
How  did  they  go  ?  Where  did  you  see  her  ?  Did  she  laugh  ? 
Did  she  cry  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it,"  cried  the  old  hag,  hold- 
ing him  closer  yet,  patting  the  hand  that  was  drawn  through 
his  arm  against  her  other  hand,  and  searching  every  line  in 
his  face  with  her  bleared  eyes.  "  Come  !  Begin  !  I  want 
to  be  told  all  about  it.  What,  Rob,  boy  !  You  and  me  can 
keep  a  secret  together,  eh  ?  We've  done  so  before  now. 
Where  did  they  go  first,  Rob  ?  " 

The  wretched  grinder  made  a  gasp  and  a  pause. 

''  Are  you  dumb  ?"  said  the  old  woman,  angrily. 

*'  Lord,  Misses  Brown,  no  !  You  expect  a  cove  to  be  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I  wish  I  was  the  electric  fluency,"  mut- 
tered the  bewildered  grinder.  "  I'd  have  a  shock  at  some- 
body, that  would  settle  their  business." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman  with  a  grin. 

"  I'm  wishing  my  love  to  you.  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
the  false  Rob,  seeking  consolation  in  the  glass.  "  Where 
did  they  go  to  first,  was  it  ?     Him  and  her,  do  you  mean  ? " 

''Ah!  "  said  the  old  woman,  eagerly.     "  Them  two." 

"Why,  they  didn't  go  nowhere — not  together,  I  mean," 
answered  Rob. 

The  old  woman  looked  at  him  as  though  she  had  a  strong 
impulse  upon  her  to  make  another  clutch- at  his  head  and 
throat,  but  was  restrained  by  a  certain  dogged  mystery  in 
his  face. 

"  That  was  the  art  of  it,"  said  the  reluctant  grinder  ; 
"  that's  the  way  nobody  saw  'em  go,  or  has  been  able  to  say 
how  they  did  go.  They  went  different  ways,  I  tell  you. 
Misses  Brown." 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!  To  meet  at  an  appointed  place,"  chuckled 
the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  silent  and  keen  scrutiny  of 
his  face. 

"  Why,  if  they  v/eren't  agoing  to  meet  somewhere,  I  sup- 
pose they  might  as  well  have  staid  at  home,  mightn't  they, 
Misseg  Brown  ? "  returned  the  unwilling  grinder. 

"Well,  Rob?     Well?"  said  the  old  woman,  drawing  his 


730  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

arm  yet  tighter  through  her  own,  as  if,  in  her  eagerness,  she 
were  afraid  of  his  slipping  away. 

'*  What,  haven't  we  talked  enough  yet,  Misses  Brown  ^  " 
returned  the  grinder,  who,  between  his  sense  of  injury,  his 
sense  of  liquor,  and  his  sense  of  being  on  the  rack,  had 
become  so  lachrymose,  that  at  almost  every  answer  he  scooped 
his  coat-cuff  into  one  or  other  of  his  eyes,  and  uttered  an 
unavailing  whine  of  remonstrance.  "  Did  she  laugh  that 
night,  was  it?  Didn't  you  ask  if  she  laughed,  Misses 
Brown  ? " 

"  Or  cried  ?  "  added  the  old  woman,  nodding  assent. 

"  Neither,"  said  the  grinder.  *'  She  kept  as  steady  when 
she  and  me — oh,  I  see  you  7vill  have  it  out  of  me,  Misses 
Brown!  But  take  your  solemn  oath  now  that  you'll  never 
tell  any  body." 

This  Mrs.  Brown  very  readily  did:  being  naturally  Jesuiti- 
cal; and  having  no  other  intention  in  the  matter  than  that 
her  concealed  visitor  should  hear  for  himself. 

'*  She  kept  as  steady,  then,  when  she  and  me  went  down 
to  Southampton,"  said  the  grinder,  ''  as  a  image.  In  the 
morning  she  was  just  the  same,  Misses  Brown.  And  when 
she  went  away  in  the  packet  before  daylight,  by  herself — me 
pretending  to  be  her  servant,  and  seeing  her  safe  aboard — 
she  was  just  the  same.  Noiv^  are  you  contented.  Misses 
Brown  ?  " 

'*  No,  Rob.     Not  yet,"  answered  Mrs.  Brown,  decisively. 

"  Oh,  here's  a  woman  for  you!"  cried  the  unfortunate 
Rob,  in  an  outburst  of  feeble  lamentation  over  his  own  help- 
lessness. "  What  did  you  wish  to  know  next,  Misses 
Brown  ?  " 

*'  What  became  of  master  ?  Where  did  he  go  ? "  she 
inquired,  still  holding  him  tight,  and  looking  close  into  his 
face  with  her  sharp  eyes. 

*'  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know.  Misses  Brown,"  answered 
Rob.  ''  Upon  my  soul,  I  don't  know  what  he  did,  nor  where 
he  went,  nor  any  thing  about  him.  I  only  know  what  he  said 
to  me  as  a  caution  to  hold  my  tongue  when  we  parted;  and 
I  tell  you  this.  Misses  Brown,  as  a  friend,  that  sooner  than 
ever  repeat  a  v/ord  of  what  we're  saying  now,  you  had  better 
take  and  shoot  yourself,  or  shut  yourself  up  in  this  house, 
and  set  it  afire,  for  there's  nothing  he  wouldn't  do  to  be 
revenged  upon  you.  You  don't  know  him  half  as  well  as  I 
do.  Misses  Brown.  You're  never  safe  from  him,  I  tell 
you." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  .      731 

"  Haven't  I  taken  an  oath,"  retorted  the  old  woman,  "  and 
won't  I  keep  it  ?  " 

'^  Well,  I'm  sure  I  hope  you  will,  Misses  Brown,"  returned 
Rob,  somewhat  doubtfully,  and  not  without  a  latent  threat- 
ening in  his  manner.  "  For  your  own  sake  quite  as  much 
as  mine." 

He  looked  at  her  as  he  gave  her  this  friendly  caution,  and 
emphasized  it  with  a  nodding  of  his  head  ;  but  finding  it 
uncomfortable  to  encounter  the  yellow  face  with  its  grotesque 
action,  and  the  ferret  eyes,  v.'ith  their  keen  old  wintry  gaze, 
so  close  to  his  own,  he  looked  down  uneasily  and  sat 
shuffling  in  his  chair,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  bring  himself 
to  a  sullen  declaration  that  he  would  answer  no  more  ques- 
tions. The  old  woman,  still  holding  him  as  before,  took 
this  opportunity  of  raising  the  forefinger  of  her  right  hand 
in  the  air,  as  a  stealthy  signal  to  the  concealed  observer  to 
give  particular  attention  to  what  was  about  to  follow. 

''  Rob,"  she  said,  in  her  most  coaxing  tone. 

"  Good  gracious.  Misses  Brown,  what's  the  matter  now?" 
returned  the  exasperated  grinder. 

"  Rob  !  where  did  the  lady  and  master  appoint  to  meet  ?  " 

Rob  shuffled  more  and  more,  and  looked  up  and  looked 
down,  and  bit  his  thumb,  and  dried  it  on  his  waistcoat,  and 
finally  said,  eying  his  tormentor  askant,  "  How  should  / 
know,  Misses  Brown  ? " 

The  old  woman  held  up  her  finger  again  as  before,  and 
replying,  "  Come,.  lad  I  It's  no  use  leading  me  to  that,  and 
there  leaving  me.     I  want  to  know  " — waited  for  his  answer. 

Rob,  after  a  discomfited  pause,  suddenly  broke  out  with, 
"  How  can  I  pronounce  the  names  of  foreign  places,  Misses 
Brown  ?     What  an  unreasonable  woman  you  are  !  " 

"  But  yau  have  heard  it  said,  Robby,"  she  retorted  firmly, 
"  and  you  know  v/hat  it  sounded  like.     Come  !  " 

"  I  never  heard  it  said.  Misses  Brown,"  returned  the 
grinder. 

"  Then,"  retorted  the  old  woman  quickly,  "3*ou  have  seen 
it  written,  and  you  can  spell  it." 

Rob,  with  a  petulant  exclamation  between  laughing  and 
crying — for  he  was  penetrated  with  some  admiration  of  Mrs. 
Brown's  cunning,  even  through  this  persecution — after  some 
reluctant  fumbling  in  his  waistcoat-pocket,  produced  from 
it  a  little  piece  of  chalk.  The  old  woman's  eyes  sparkled 
when  she  saw  it  between  his  thumb  and  finger,  and  hastily 
clearing  a  space  on  the  deal  table,  that  he  might  write  the 


732  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

word   there,  she  once  more  made  he^^  signal  with  a  shaking 
hand, 

''  Now,  I  tell  you  beforehand  what  it  is,  Misses  Brown," 
said  Rob,  *'  it's  no  use  asking  me  any  thing  else.  I  won't 
answer  any  thing  else  ;  I  can't.  How  long  it  was  to  be 
before  they  met,  or  whose  plan  it  was  that  they  was  to  go 
away  alone,  I  don't  know  no  more  than  you  do.  I  don't 
know  any  more  about  it.  If  I  was  to  tell  you  how  I  found 
out  this  word,  you'd  believe  that.  Shall  I  tell  you.  Misses 
Brown?" 

"  Yes,  Rob." 

"  Well,  then.  Misses  Brown.  The  way — now  you  won't 
ask  any  more,  you  know  ?  "  said  Rob,  turning  his  eyes, 
which  were  now  fast  getting  drowsy  and  stupid,  upon  her. 

"  Not  another  word,"  said  Mrs.  Brown. 

"  Well,  then,  the  way  was  this.  When  a  certain  person 
left  the  lady  with  me,  he  put  a  piece  of  paper  with  a  direc- 
tion written  on  it  in  the  lady's  hand,  saying  it  was  in  case 
she  should  forget.  She  wasn't  afraid  of  forgetting,  for  she 
tore  it  up  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  and  when  I  put  up 
the  carriage  steps,  I  shook  out  one  of  the  pieces — she 
sprinkled  the  rest  out  of  the  window,  I  suppose,  for  there 
was  none  there  afterward,  though  I  looked  for  'em.  There 
was  only  one  word  on  it,  and  that  was  this,  if  you  must  and 
will  know.  But  remember  !  You're  upon  your  oath, 
Misses  Brown  !  " 

Mrs.  Brown  knew  that,  she  said.  Rob  having  nothing 
more  to  say,  began  to  chalk,  slowly  and  laboriously,  on  the 
table. 

"  '  D,'  "  the  old  woman  read  aloud,  when  he  had  formed 
the  letter. 

"  Will  you  hold  your  tongue.  Misses  Brown  ? "  he 
exclaimed,  covering  it  with  his  hand,  and  turning  impatiently 
upon  her,  "  1  won't  have   it  read  out.     Be  quiet,  will  you  !  " 

"Then  write  large,  Rob,"  she  returned,  repeating  her 
secret  signal  ;  "for  my  eyes  are  not  good,  even  at  print." 

Muttering  to  himself,  and  returning  to  his  work  with  an 
ill-will,  Rob  went  on  with  the  word.  As  he  bent  his  head 
down,  the  person  for  whose  information  he  so  unconsciously 
labored  moved  from  the  door  behind  him  to  within  a  short 
stride  of  his  shoulder,  and  looked  eagerly  toward  the  creep- 
ing track  of  his  hand  upon  the  table.  At  the  same  time, 
Alice,  from  her  opposite  chair,  watched  it  narrowly  as  it 
shaped  the  letters,  and  repeated  each   one  on  her  lips  as  he 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  733 

Tiiade  it,  without  articulating  it  aloud.  At  the  end  of  every 
letter  her  eyes  and  Mr.  Dombey's  met,  as  if  each  of  them 
sought  to  he  confirmed  by  the  other  ;  and  thus  they  both 
spelled  D.  I.  J.  O.  X. 

*'  There  !  "  said  the  grinder,  moistening  the  palm  of  his 
hand  hastily,  to  obliterate  the  word  ;  and  not  content  with 
smearing  it  out,  rubbing  and  planing  all  trace  of  it  away 
with  his  coat-sleeve,  until  the  very  color  of  the  chalk  was 
gone  from  the  table.  "  Now  I  hope  you're  contented,  iMisses 
Brown  !  " 

The  old  woman,  in  token  of  her  being  so,  released  his 
arm  and  patted  his  back  ;  and  the  grinder,  overcome  with 
mortification,  cross-examination,  and  liquor,  folded  his 
arms  on  the  table,  laid  his  head  upon  them,   and   fell  asleep. 

Not  until  he  had  been  heavily  asleep  some  time,  and  was 
snoring  roundly,  did  the  old  woman  turn  toward  the  door, 
where  Mr.  Dombey  stood  concealed,  and  beckon  him  to 
come  through  the  room  and  pass  out.  Even  then  she 
hovered  over  Rob,  ready  to  blind  him  with  her  hands,  or 
strike  his  head  down,  if  he  should  raise  it  while  the  secret 
step  was  crossing  to  the  door.  But  though  her  glance  took 
sharp  cognizance  of  the  sleeper,  it  was  sharp  too  for  the 
waking  man  ;  and  when  he  touched  her  hand  with  his,  and 
in  spite  of  all  his  caution,  made  a  chinking,  golden  sound,  it 
was  as  bright  and  greedy  as  a  raven's. 

The  daughter's  dark  gaze  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
noted  well  how  pale  he  was,  and  how  his  hurried  tread  indi- 
cated that  the  least  delay  was  an  insupportable  restraint 
upon  him,  and  how  he  was  burning  to  be  active  and  away. 
As  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  she  looked  round  at  her 
mother.  The  old  woman  trotted  to  her  ;  opened  her  hand 
to  show  what  was  within  ;  and,  tightly  closing  it  again  in 
her  jealousv  and  avarice,  whispered  : 

"  What  will  he  do.  Ally  ?  " 

"  Mischief,"  said  the  daughter. 

"  Murder  ?  "  asked  the  old  woman. 

"  He's  a  madman,  in  his  wounded  pride,  and  may  do  that. 
for  any  thing  we  can  say,  or  he  either." 

Her  glance  was  brighter  than  her  mother's,  and  the  fire 
that  shone  in  it  was  fiercer  ;  but  her  face  was  colorless,  even 
to  her  lips. 

They  said  no  more,  but  sat  apart ;  the  mother  commun- 
ing with  her  money  ;  the  daughter  with  her  thoughts  ;  the 
glance  of  each   shining  in  the  gloom  of    the    feebly  lighted 


734  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

room.  Rob  slept  and  snored.  The  disregarded  parrot 
only  was  in  action.  It  twisted  and  pulled  at  the  wires  of 
its  cage  with  its  crooked  beak,  and  crawled  up  to  the  dome, 
and  along  its  roof  like  a  fly,  and  down  again  head  foremost, 
and  shook,  and  bit^  and  rattled  at  every  slender  bar,  as  if  it 
knew  its  master's  danger,  and  was  wild  to  force  a  passage 
out   and  fly  away  to  warn  him  of  it. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

MORE    INTELLIGENCE. 

There  were  two  of  the  traitor's  own  blood — his  renounced 
brother  and  sister — on  whom  the  weight  of  his  guilt  rested 
almost  more  heavily,  at  this  time,  than  on  the  man  whom  he 
had  so  deeply  injured.  Prying  and  tormenting  as  the  world 
was,  it  did  Mr.  Dombey  the  service  of  nerving  him  to  pur- 
suit and  revenge.  It  roused  his  passion,  stung  his  pride, 
twisted  the  one  idea  of  his  life  into  a  new  shape,  and  made 
some  gratification  of  his  wrath,  the  object  into  which  his 
whole  intellectual  existence  resolved  itself.  All  the  stub- 
bornness and  implacability  of  his  nature,  all  its  hard  impen- 
etrable quality,  all  its  gloom  and  moroseness,  all  its  exagger- 
ated sense  of  personal  importance,  all  its  jealous  disposition 
to  resent  the  least  flaw  in  the  ample  recognition  of  his 
importance  by  others,  set  this  way  like  many  streams  united 
into  one,  and  bore  him  on  upon  their  tide.  The  most 
impetuously  passionate  and  violently  impulsive  of  mankind 
would  have  been  a  milder  enemy  to  encounter  than  the 
sullen  Mr.  Dombey  wrought  to  this.  A  wild  beast  would 
have  been  easier  turned  or  soothed  than  the  grave  gentleman 
without  a  wrinkle  in  his  starched  cravat. 

But  the  very  intensity  of  his  purpose  became  almost  a 
substitute  for  action  in  it.  While  he  was  yet  uninformed  of 
the  traitor's  retreat  it  served  to  divert  his  mind  from  his  own 
calamity,  and  to  entertain  it  with  another  prospect.  The 
brother  and  sister  of  his  false  favorite  had  no  such  relief  ; 
every  thing  in  their  history,  past,  and  present,  gave  his 
delinquency  a  more  afflicting  meaning  to  them. 

The  sister  may  have  sometimes  sadly  thought  that  if  she 
had  remained  with  him,  the  companion  and  friend  she  had 
been  once,  he  might  have  escaped  the  crime  into  which  he 
had  fallen.     If  she  ever  thought    so,    it   was    still  without 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  735 

regret  for  what  she  had  done,  without  the  least  doubt  of  her 
duty,  without  any  pricing  or  enhancing  of  her  self-devotion. 
But  when  this  possibility  presented  itself  to  the  erring  and 
repentant  brother,  as  it  sometimes  did,  it  smote  upon  his 
heart  with  such  a  keen,  reproachful  touch  as  he  could  hardly 
bear.  No  idea  of  retort  upon  his  cruel  brother  came  into  his 
mind.  New  accusation  of  himself,  fresh  inward  lamentings 
over  his  own  unworthiness,  and  the  ruin  in  which  it  was  at 
once  his  consolation  and  his  self-reproach  that  he  did  not 
stand  alone,  were  the  sole  kind  of  reflections  to  which  the 
discovery  gave  rise  in  him. 

It  was  on  the  very  same  day  whose  evening  set  upon  the 
last  chapter,  and  when  Mr.  Dombey's  world  was  busiest  with 
the  elopement  of  his  wife,  that  the  window  of  the  room  in 
which  the  brother  and  sister  sat  at  their  early  breakfast,  was 
darkened  by  the  unexpected  shadow  of  a  man  coming  to  the 
little  porch  ;  which  man  was  Perch  the  messenger. 

"  I've  stepped  over  from  Ball's  Pond  at  a  early  hour,"  said 
Mr.  Perch,  confidentially  looking  in  at  the  room  door,  and 
stopping  on  the  mat  to  wipe  his  shoes  all  round,  which  had 
no  mud  upon  them,  "  agreeable  to  my  instructions  last  night. 
They  was,  to  be  sure  and  bring  a  note  to  you,  Mr.  Carker, 
before  you  went  out  in  the  morning.  I  should  have  been 
here  a  good  hour  and  a  half  ago,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  meekly, 
"  but  for  the  state  of  health  of  Mrs.  P.,  who  I  thought  I 
should  have  lost  in  the  night,  I  do  assure  you,  five  distinct 
times." 

"  Is  your  wife  so  ill  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

''Why,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  first  turning  round  to 
shut  the  door  carefully,  ''  she  takes  what  has  happened  in 
our  house  so  much  to  heart,  miss.  Her  nerves  is  so  very 
delicate,  you  see,  and  soon  unstrung.  Not  but  what  the 
strongest  nerves  had  good  need  to  be  shook,  I'm  sure.  You 
feel  it  very  much  yourself,  no  doubts." 

Harriet  repressed  a  sigh,  and  glanced  at  her  brother. 

'*  I'm  sure  I  feel  it  my'self,  in  my  humble  way,"  Mr.  Perch 
went  on  to  say,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  *'  in  a  manner  I 
couldn't  have  believed  if  I  hadn't  been  called  upon  to 
undergo.  It  has  almost  the  effect  of  drink  upon  me.  I 
literally  feels  every  morning  as  if  I  had  been  taking  more 
than  was  good  for  me  overnight." 

Mr.  Perch's  appearance  corroborated  this  recital  of  his 
symptoms.  There  was  an  air  of  feverish  lassitude  about  it 
that  seemed  referable  to  drams  ;  and  which,  in  fact,  might 


736  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

no  doubt  have,  been  traced  to  those  numerous  discoveries  of 
himself  in  the  bars  of  pubUc-houses,  being  treated  and" 
questioned,  which  he  was  in  the  daily  habit  of  making. 

"  Therefore  I  can  judge,"  said  Mr,  Perch,  shaking  his 
head  again,  and  speaking  in  a  silvery  murmur,  "of  the 
feelings  of  such  as  is  at  all  peculiarly  sitiwated  in  this  most 
painful  rewelation." 

Here  Mr.  Perch  waited  to  be  confided  in  ;  and  receiving 
no  confidence,  coughed  behind  his  hand.  This  leading  to 
nothing,  he  coughed  behind  his  hat  ;  and  that  leading  to 
nothing,  he  put  his  hat  on  the  ground  and  sought  in  his 
breast  pocket  for  the  letter. 

"  If  I  rightly  recollect,  there  was  no  answer,"  said  Mr. 
Perch,  with  an  affable  smile  ;  "  but  perhaps  you'll  be  so  good 
as  cast  your  eye  over  it,  sir." 

John  Carker  broke  the  seal,  which  was  Mr.  Dombey's,  and 
possessing  himself  of  the  contents,  which  were  very  brief, 
replied,  "  No.     No  answer  is  expected." 

"Then  I  shall  wish  you  good  morning,  miss,"  said  Perch, 
taking  a  step  toward  the  door,  "  and  hoping  I'm  sure,  that 
you  will  not  permit  yourself  to  be  more  reduced  in  mind 
than  you  can  help  by  the  late  painful  revvalation.  The 
papers,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  taking  two  steps  back  again,  and 
comprehensively  addressing  both  the  brother  and  sister  in  a 
whisper  of  increased  mystery,  "  is  more  eager  for  news  of  it 
than  you'd  suppose  possible.  One  of  the  Sunday  ones,  in  a 
blue  cloak  and  a  white  hat,  that  had  previously  offered  for 
to  bribe  me — need  I  say  with  what  success  ? — was  dodging 
about  our  court  last  night  as  late  as  twenty  minutes  after 
eight  o'clock.  I  see  him  myself,  with  his  eye  at  the  count- 
ing-house key-hole,  which  being  patent  is  impervious. 
Another  one,"  said  Mr.  Perch,  "with  milintary  frogs,  is  in 
the  parlor  of  the  King's  Arms  all  the  blessed  day.  I  hap- 
pened last  week,  to  let  a  little  obserwation  fall  there,  and  next 
morning,  which  was  Sunday,  I  see  it  worked  up  in  print,  in 
a  most  surprising  manner." 

Mr.  Perch  resorted  to  his  breast  pocket,  as  if  to  produce 
the  paragraph,  but  receiving  no  encouragement,  pulled  out 
his  beaver  gloves,  picked  up  his  hat,  and  took  his  leave  ;  and 
before  it  v/as  high  noon,  Mr.  Perch  had  related  to  several 
select  audiences  at  the  King's  Arms  and  elsewhere,  how  Miss 
Carker,  bursting  into  tears,  had  caught  him  by  both  hands, 
and  said,  "  Oh  dear,  dear  Perch,  the  sight  of  you  is  all  the 
comfort  I  have  left  !"  and  how  Mr.  John  Carker  had  said,  in 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  737 

an  awful  voice,  "  Perch,  I  disown  him.  Never  let  me  hear 
him  mentioned  as  a  brother  more  !  " 

"  Dear  John  "  said  Harriet,  when  they  were  left  alone, 
and  had  remained  silent  for  some  few  moments.  **  There 
are  bad  things  in  that  letter." 

"  Yes.  But  nothing  unexpected,"  he  replied.  "  I  saw  the 
writer  yesterday." 

''The  writer?" 

'*  Mr.  Dombey.  He  passed  twice  through  the  counting- 
house  while  I  was  there.  I  had  been  able  to  avoid  him 
before,  but  of  course  could  not  hope  to  do  that  long.  I 
know  how  natural  it  was  that  he  should  regard  my 
presence  as  something  offensive  ;  I  felt  it  must  be  so, 
myself." 

"  He  did  not  say  so  ?  " 

'*  No  ;  he  said  nothing  ;  but  I  saw  that  his  glance  rested 
on  me  for  a  moment,  and  I  was  prepared  for  what  would 
happen — for  what  has  happened.     I  am  dismissed." 

She  looked  as  little  shocked  and  as  hopeful  as  she  could, 
but  it  was  distressing  news  for  many  reasons. 

"  '  I  need  not  tell  you,'  "  said  John  Carker,  reading  the 
letter,  "  '  why  your  name  would  henceforth  have  an  unnat- 
ural sound,  in  however  remote  a  connection  with  mine,  or 
why  the  daily  sight  of  any  one  who  bears  it,  would  be  unen- 
durable to  me.  I  have  to  notify  the  cessation  of  all  engage- 
ments between  us,  from  this  date,  and  to  request  that  no 
renewal  of  any  communication  with  me  or  my  establishment 
be  ever  attempted  by  you.' — Inclosed  is  an  equivalent  in 
money  to  a  generously  long  notice,  and  this  is  my  discharge. 
Heaven  knows,  Harriet,  it  is  a  lenient  and  considerate  one, 
when  we  remember  all." 

**  If  it  be  lenient  and  considerate  to  punish  you  at  all, 
John,  for  the  misdeed  of  another,"  she  replied  gently,  "  yes." 

"  We  have  been  an  ill-omened  race  to  him,"  said  John 
Carker.  "  He  has  reason  to  shrink  from  the  sound  of  our 
name,  and  to  think  that  there  is  something  cursed  and 
wicked  in  our  blood.  I  should  almost  think  it  too,  Harriet, 
but  for  you." 

"  Brother,  don't  speak  like  this.  If  you  Tiave  any  special 
reason,  as  you  say  you  have,  and  think  you  have — though  I 
say  no  ! — to  love  me,  spare  me  the  hearing  of  such  wild, 
mad  words  !  " 

He  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  ;  but  soon  per- 
mitted her,  coming  near  him,  to  take  one  in  her  own. 


735  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"  After  so  many  years,  this  parting  is  a  melancholy  thing, 
I  know,"  said  his  sister,  "  and  the  cause  of  it  is  dreadful 
to  us  both.  We  have  to  live,  too,  and  must  look  about  us 
for  the  means.  Well,  well  !  We  can  do  so  undismayed.  It 
is  our  pride,  not  our  trouble,  to  strive,  John,  and  to  strive 
together !  " 

A  smile  played  on  her  lips,  as  she  kissed  his  cheek,  and 
entreated  him  to  be  of  good  cheer. 

"  Oh,  dearest  sister  !  Tied,  of  your  own  noble  will,  to  a 
ruined  man  !  whose  reputation  is  blighted  ;  who  has  no 
friend  himself,  and  has  driven  every  friend  of  yours  away  !  " 

"  John  !"  she  laid  her  hand  hastily  upon  his  lips,  "for 
my  sake  !  In  remembrance  of  our  long  companionship  !  " 
He  was  silent.  "  Now  let  me  tell  you,  dear,"  quietly  sitting 
by  his  side,  "  I  have,  as  you  have,  expected  this  ;  and  when 
I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing  that  it  would  hap- 
pen, and  preparing  myself  for  it  as  well  as  I  could,  I  have 
resolved  to  tell  you,  if  it  should  be  so,  that  I  have  kept  a 
secret  from  you,  and  that  we  have  a  friend." 

"  What's  our  friend's  name,  Harriet  ?  "  he  answered,  with 
a  sorrowful  smile. 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  know,  but  he  once  made  a  very  earnest 
protestation  to  me  of  his  friendship,  and  his  wish  to  serve 
us  ;  and  to  this  day  I  believe  him." 

*'  Harriet  !  "  exclaimed  her  wondering  brother,  "  where 
does  this  friend  live  ?  " 

"  Neither  do  I  know  that,"  she  returned.  "  But  he  knows 
us  both,  and  our  history — all  our  little  history,  John.  That 
is  the  reason  why,  at  his  own  suggestion,  I  have  kept  the 
secret  of  his  coming  here  from  you,  lest  his  acquaintance 
with  it  should  distress  you." 

"  Here  !  Has  he  been  here,  Harriet  ? " 

"Here,  in  this  room.     Once." 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  ?  " 

"  Not  young.  '  Gray-headed,'  as  he  said,  '  and  fast 
growing  grayer.'  But  generous,  and  frank,  and  good,  I  am 
sure." 

"  And  only  seen  once,  Harriet  ?  " 

'*  In  this  room  only  once,"  said  his  sister,  with  the  slight- 
est and  most  transient  glow  upon  her  cheek  ;  "  but  when 
here,  he  entreated  me  to  suffer  him  to  see  me  once  a  week 
as  he  passed  by,  in  token  of  our  being  well,  and  continuing 
to  need  nothing  at  his  hands.  For  I  told  him, 
when   he   proffered     us    any    service    he    could    render — 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  739 

which   was  the  object  of  his  visit — that  we  needed  noth- 
ing." 

''  And  once  a  week — " 

*'  Once  every  week  since  then,  and  always  on  the  same 
day  and  at  the  same  hour,  he  has  gone  past ;  always  on  foot  ; 
always  going  in  the  same  direction — toward  London  ;  and 
never  pausing  longer  than  to  bow  to  me,  and  wave  his  hand 
cheerfully,  as  a  kind  guardian  might.  He  made  that  promise 
when  he  proposed  these  curious  interviews,  and  has  kept  it 
so  faithfully  and  pleasantly,  that  if  I  ever  felt  any  trifling 
uneasiness  about  them  in  the  beginning  (which  I  don't 
think  I  did,  John  ;  his  manner  was  so  plain  and  true)  it 
very  soon  vanished,  and  left  me  quite  glad  when  the  day 
v/as  coming.  Last  Monday — the  first  since  this  terrible 
event — he  did  not  go  by  ;  and  I  have  wondered  whether 
his  absence  can  have  been  in  any  way  connected  with  what 
has  happened." 

"  How  ?  "  inquired  her  brother. 

"  I  don't  know  how.  I  have  only  speculated  on  the  coin- 
cidence ;  I  have  not  tried  to  account  for  it.  I  feel  sure  he 
will  return.  When  he  does,  dear  John,  let  me  tell  him  that 
I  have  at  last  spoken  to  you,  and  let  me  bring  you  together. 
He  will  certainly  help  us  to  a  new  livelihood.  His  entreaty 
was  that  he  might  do  something  to  smooth  my  life  and 
yours  ;  and  I  gave  him  my  promise  that  if  we  ever  wanted 
a  friend,  I  would  remember  him.  Then  his  name  was  to  be 
no  secret." 

'*  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  who  had  listened  with  close 
attention,  '*  describe  this  gentleman  to  me.  I  surely  ought 
to  know  one  who  knovv^s  me  so  well." 

His  sister  painted,  as  vividly  as  she  could,  the  features, 
stature,  and  dress  of  her  visitor  ;  but  John  Carker,  either 
from  having  no  knowledge  of  the  original,  or  from  some  fault 
in  her  description,  or  from  some  abstraction  of  his  thoughts 
as  he  walked  to  and  fro,  pondering,  could  not  recognize  the 
portrait  she  presented  to  him. 

However,  it  was  agreed  between  them  that  he  should  see 
the  original  when  he  next  appeared.  This  concluded,  the 
sister  applied  herself,  with  a  less  anxious  breast,  to  her 
domestic  occupations  ;  and  the  gray-haired  man,  late  junior 
of  Dombey's,  devoted  the  first  day  of  his  unwonted  liberty 
to  working  in  the  garden. 

It  was  quite  late  at  night,  and  the  brother  was  reading 
aloud  while  the  sister  plied  her  needle,  when  they  were  inter- 


74©  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

rupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  door.  In  the  atmosphere  of 
vague  anxiety  and  dread  that  lowered  about  them  in  connec- 
tion with  their  fugitive  brother,  this  sound,  unusual  there, 
became  almost  alarming.  The  brother  going  to  the  door, 
the  sister  sat  and  listened  timidly.  Some  one  spoke  to  him, 
and  he  replied  and  seemed  surprised  ;  and  after  a  few  words, 
the  two  approached  together. 

"Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  lighting  in  their  late  visitor, 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr.  Morfin — the  gentleman  so 
long  in  Dombey's  house  with  James." 

His  sister  started  back  as  if  a  ghost  had  entered.  In  the 
door-way  stood  the  unknown  friend,  with  the  dark  hair 
sprinkled  with  gray,  the  ruddy  face,  the  broad,  clear  brow 
and  hazel  eyes,  whose  secret  she  had  kept  so  long  ! 

'*  John  !  "  she  said,  half  breathless.  "It  is  the  gentleman 
I  told  you  of  to-day." 

"  The  gentleman.  Miss  Harriet,"  said  the  visitor  coming 
in — for  he  had  stopped  a  moment  in  the  door-way,  "  is 
greatly  relieved  to  hear  you  say  that  ;  he  has  been  devising 
ways  and  means,  all  the  way  here,  of  explaining  himself,  and 
has  been  satisfied  with  none.  Mr.  John,  I  am  not  quite  a 
stranger  here.  You  were  stricken  with  astonishment  when 
you  saw  me  at  your  door  just  now.  I  observe  you  are  more 
astonished  at  present.  Well !  That's  reasonable  enough  under 
existing  circumstances.  If  we  were  not  such  creatures  of 
habit  we  are,  we  shouldn't  have  reason  to  be  astonished 
half  so  often." 

By  this  time  he  had  greeted  Harriet  with  that  agreeable 
mingling  of  cordiality  and  respect  which  she  recollected 
so  well,  and  had  sat  down  near  her,  pulled  off  his  gloves,  and 
thrown  them  into  his  hat  upon  the  table. 

"  There's  nothing  astonishing,"  he  said,  "in  my  having 
conceived  a  desire  to  see  your  sister,  Mr.  John,  or  in  my 
having  gratified  it  in  my  own  way.  As  to  the  regularity  of 
my  visits  since  (which  she  may  have  mentioned  to  you), 
there  is  nothing  extraordmary  in  that.  They  so  on  grew  into 
a  habit  ;  and  as  we  are  creatures  of  habit — creatures  of 
habit  !  " 

Putting  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  leaning  back  in  his 
chair,  he  looked  at  the  brother  and  sister  as  if  it  were  interest- 
ing to  him  to  see  them  together  ;  and  went  on  to  say,  with  a 
kind  of  irritable  thoughtfulness:  "It's  this  same  habit  that  con- 
firms some  of  us,  who  are  capable  of  better  things,  in  Luci- 
fer's own  pride  and  stubbornness — that  confirms  and  deepens 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  741 

others  of  us  in  villainy — more  of  us  in  indifference — that 
hardens  us  from  day  to  day,  according  to  the  temper  of  our 
clay,  like  images,  and  leaves  us  as  susceptible  as  images  to 
rew  impressions  and  convictions.  You  shall  judge  of  its 
'influence  on  me,  John.  For  more  years  than  I  need  name, 
I  had  my  small,  and  exactly  defined  share  in  the  manage- 
ment of  Dombey's  house,  and  saw  your  brother  (who  has 
proved  himself  a  scoundrel  !  Your  sister  will  forgive  my 
being  obliged  to  mention  it)  extending  and  extend- 
ing his  influence,  until  the  business  and  its  owner 
were  his  foot-ball  ;  and  saw  you  toiling  at  your  obscure  desk 
every  day  ;  and  was  quite  content  to  be  as  little  trouble  as  I 
might  be,  out  of  my  own  strip  of  duty,  and  to  let  every  thing 
about  me  go  on,  day  by  day,  unquestioned,  like  a  great 
machine — that  was  its  habit  and  mine — and  to  take  it  all  for 
granted,  and  consider  it  all  right.  My  Wednesday  nights 
came  regularly  round,  our  quartette  parties  came  regularly 
•off,  my  violoncello  was  in  good  tune,  and  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  my  world — or,  ii  any  thing,  not  much — or  little  or 
much,  it  was  no  affair  of  mine." 

"  I  can  answer  for  your  being  more  respected  and  beloved 
during  all  that  time  than  any  body  in  the  house,  sir,"  said 
John  Carker. 

''  Pooh  !  Good-natured  and  easy  enough,  I  dare  say," 
returned  the  other,  "  a  habit  I  had.  It  suited  the  manager  ; 
it  suited  the  man  he  managed  ;  it  suited  me  best  of  all.  I 
did  what  was  allotted  to  me  to  do,  made  no  court  to  either  of 
them,  and  was  g  occupy  a  station  in  which   none  was 

required.     So  I  d  have  gone  on  till  now,  but  that  my 

room  had  a  thin  wall     You  can  tell  your  sister  that  it  was 
divided  from  the  manager's  room  by  a  wainscot  partition." 

"They  were  a  joining  rooms;  had  been  one,  perhaps 
originally  ;  and  wer;  separated,  as  Mr.  Morfin  says,"  said 
her  brother,  looking  back  to  him  for  the  resumption  of  his 
explanation. 

"  I  have  whistled,  hummed  tunes,  gone  accurately  through 
the  whole  of  Beethoven's  sonata  in  B,  to  let  him  know  that 
I  was  within  hearing,"  said  Mr.  Morfin;  ''but  he  never 
heeded  me.  It  happened  seldom  enough  that  I  was  within 
hearing  of  any  thing  of  a  private  "lature,  certainly.  But 
when  I  was,  and  couldn't  otherwise  avoid  knowing  something 
of  it,  I  walked  out.  "I  walked  out  once,  John,  during  a  con- 
versation between  two  brothers,  to  which,  in  the  beginning, 
young  Walter  Gay  was  a  party.     But  I  overheard  some  of  it 


742  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

before  I  left  the  room.     You  remember  it  sufficiently,  per- 
haps, to  tell  your  sister  what  its  nature  was  ? " 

"It  referred,  Harriet,"  said  her  brother,  in  a  low  voice, 
"  to  the  past,  and  to  our  relative  positions  in  the  house." 

"  Its  matter  was  not  new  to  me,  but  was  presented 
in  a  new  aspect.  It  shook  me  in  my  habit — the  habit  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  world — of  believing  that  all  was  right, 
about  me,  because  I  was  used  to  it,"  said  their  visitor  ;  "  and 
induced  me  to  recall  the  history  of  th )  two  brothers,  and  to 
ponder  on  it.  I  think  it  was  almost  the  first  time  in  my 
life  when  I  fell  into  this  train  of  reflection — how  will  many 
things  that  are  familiar,  and  quite  matters  of  course  to  us 
now,  look  when  we  come  to  see  them  from  that  new  and  dis- 
tant point  of  view  which  we  all  must  take  up,  one  day  or 
other  ?  I  was  something  less  good-natured,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  after  that  morning,  less  easy  and  complacent  alto- 
gether." 

He  sat  for  a  minute  or  so,  drumming  with  one  hand  on 
the  table  ;  and  resumed  in  a  hurry,  as  if  he  were  anxious  to 
get  rid  of  his  confession. 

"  Before  I  knew  what  to  do,  or  whether  I  could  do  any 
thing,  there  was  a  second  conversation  between  the  same  two 
brothers,  in  which  their  sister  w^as  mentioned.  I  had  no 
scruples  of  conscience  in  suffering  all  the  waifs  and  strays  of 
that  conversation  to  float  to  me  as  freely  as  they  would.  I 
considered  them  mine  by  right.  After  that,  I  came  here  to  see 
that  sister  for  myself.  The  first  time  I  stopped  at  the  garden- 
gate,  I  made  a  pretext  of  inquiring  into  the  character  of  a  poor 
neighbor  ;  but  I  wandered  out  of  that  tract,  and  I  think 
Miss  Harriet  mistrusted  me.  The  second  time  I  asked 
leave  to  come  in  ;  came  in  ;  and  said  what  I  wished  to  say. 
Your  sister  showed  me  reasons  which  I  dared  not  dispute, 
for  receiving  no  assistance  from  me  then  ;  but  I  established 
a  means  of  communication  between  us,  which  remained 
unbroken  until  within  these  few  days,  when  I  was  prevented 
by  important  matters  that  have  lately  devolved  upon  me, 
from  maintaining  them." 

"  How  little  I  have  suspected  this,"  said  John  Carker, 
"  when  I  have  seen  you  every  day,  sir  !  If  Harriet  could 
have  guessed  your  name — " 

"Why,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  John,"  interposed  the  visitor, 
"  I  kept  it  to  myself  for  two  reasons.  I  don't  know  that  the 
first  might  have  been  binding  alone  ;  but  one  has  no  busi- 
ness to  take  credit  for  good  intentions,  and  I  made  up  my 


DOMBEV  AND  SON.  ^43 

mind,  at  all  events,  not  to  disclose  myself  until  I  should  be 
able  to  do  you  some  real  service  or  other.  My  second  rea- 
son was,  that  I  always  hoped  there  might  be  some  lingering 
possibility  of  your  brother's  relenting  toward  you  both  ;  and 
in  that  case,  I  felt  that  where  there  was  the  chance  of  a  man 
of  his  suspicious,  watchful  character,  discovering  that  you 
had  been  secretly  befriended  b  me,  there  was  the  chance  of 
a  new  and  fatal  cause  of  division.  I  resolved,  to  be  sure,  at 
the  risk  of  turning  his  displeasure  against  myself — which 
would  have  been  no  matter — to  watch  my  opportunity  of 
serving  you  with  the  head  of  the  house  ;  but  the  distractions 
of  death,  courtship,  marriage,  and  domestic  unhappiness 
have  left  us  no  head  but  your  brother  for  this  long,  long 
time.  And  it  would  have  been  better  for  us,"  said  the  vis- 
itor, dropping  his  voice,  to  have  been  a  lifeless  trunk." 

He  seemed  conscious  that  these  latter  words  had  escaped 
him  against  his  will,  and  stretching  out  a  hand  to  the 
brother,  and  a  hand  to  the  sister,  continued  : 

"  All  I  could  desire  to  say,  and  more,  I  have  now  said. 
All  I  mean  goes  beyond  words,  as  I  hope  you  understand 
and  believe.  The  time  has  come,  John — though  most  unfor- 
tunately and  unhappily  come — when  I  may  help  you  without 
interfering  v/ith  that  redeeming  struggle,  which  has  lasted 
through  so  many  years  ;  since  you  were  discharged  from  it 
to-day  by  no  act  of  your  own.  It  is  late  ;  I  need  say  no 
more  to-night.  You  will  guard  the  treasure  you  have  here, 
without  advice  or  reminder  from  me." 

With  these  words  he  arose  to  go. 

"But  go  you  first,  John,"  he  said,  good-humoredly,  "with 
a  light,  without  saying  what  you  want  to  say,  whatever  that 
may  be  ;  "  John  Carker's  heart  was  full,  and  he  would  have 
relieved  it  in  speech,  if  he  could  ;  "  and  let  me  have  a  word 
with  your  sister.  We  have  talked  alone  before,  and  in  this 
room,  too  ;  though  it  looks  more  natural  with  you  here." 

Following  him  out  with  his  eyes,  he  turned  kindly  to 
Harriet,  and  said  in  a  lower  voice,  and  with  an  altered  and 
graver  manner  : 

"  You  wish  to  ask  me  something  of  the  man  whose  sister 
it  is  your  misfortune  to  be." 

"  I  dread  to  ask,"  said  Harriet. 

"  You  have  looked  so  earnestly  at  me  more  than  once," 
rejoined  the  visitor,  "  that  I  think  I  can  divine  your  questioa 
Has  he  taken  money  ?     Is  it  that  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


744  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

'*  He  has  not." 

"  I  thank  heaven ! "  said  Harriet.  "  For  the  sake  of 
John." 

"  That  he  has  abused  his  trust  in  many  ways,"  said  Mr. 
Morfin  ;  "  that  he  has  oftener  dealt  and  speculated  to 
advantage  for  himself,  than  for  the  house  he  represented  ; 
that  he  has  led  the  house  on  to  prodigious  ventures,  often 
resulting  in  enormous  losses  ;  that  he  has  often  pampered 
the  vanity  and  ambition  of  his  employer,  when  it  was  his 
duty  to  have  held  them  in  check,  and  shown,  as  it  was  in  his 
power  to  do,  to  what  they  tended  here  or  there  ;  will  not, 
perhaps,  surprise  you  now.  Undertakings  have  been  entered 
on  to  swell  the  reputation  of  the  house  for  vast  resources, 
and  to  exhibit  it  in  magnificent  contrast  to  other  merchants' 
houses,  of  which  it  requires  a  steady  head  to  contemplate 
the  possibly — a  few  disastrous  changes  of  affairs  might 
render  them  the  probably — ruinous  consequences.  In  the 
midst  of  the  many  transactions  of  the  house,  in  most  parts 
of  the  world  ;  a  great  labyrinth  of  which  only  he  has  held 
the  clew  ;  he  has  had  the  opportunity,  and  he  seems  to  have 
used  it,  of  keeping  the  various  results  afloat,  w^hen  ascer- 
tained, and  substituting  estimates  and  generalities  for  facts. 
But  latterly — you  follow  me.  Miss  Harriet  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,"  she  answered,  with  her  frightened 
face  fixed  on  hxs.     "  Pray  tell  me  all  the  worst  at  once." 

"  Latterly,  he  appears  to  have  devoted  the  greatest  pains 
to  making  thes<i  results  so  plain  and  clear,  that  reference  to 
the  private  boo<s  enables  one  to  grasp  them,  numerous  and 
varying  as  thev  are,  with  extraordinary  ease.  As  if  he  had 
resolved  to  show  his  employer  at  one  broad  vicAv  what  has 
been  brought  upon  him  by  ministration  to  his  ruling  passion  ! 
That  it  has  been  his  constant  practice  to  minister  to  that 
passion  basely,  and  to  flatter  it  corruptly,  is  indubitable.  In 
that,  his  criminality,  as  it  is  connected  with  the  aifairs  of  the 
house,  chieHy  consists." 

"  One  other  word  before  you  leave  me,  dear  sir,"  said 
Harriet.     "  There  is  no  danger  in  all  this  ? " 

^'  How  danger  ?  "  he  returned,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"To  ttie  credit  of  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  can  not  help  answering  you  plainly,  and  trusting  you 
completely/'  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  moment's  survey  of  her 
fa.ce. 

''  You  may.     Indeed,  you  may  !  " 

**  I  am  sure  I  may.     Danger  to  the  house's  credit  ?     No  ; 


rsOMBEY   AND   SON.  745 

TiOrts.  There  n^ay  be  difficulty,  greater  or  less  difficulty,  but 
no  danger,  u?^less — unless,  indeed — the  head  of  the  house, 
unable  to  bring  his  mind  to  the  reduction  of  its  enterprises, 
and  positively  refusing  to  believe  that  it  is,  or  can  be,  in  any 
position  but  the  position  in  ^Yhich  he  has  always  represented 
it  to  himself,  should  urge  it  beyond  its  strength.  Then  it 
would  totter." 

"  But  there  is  no  apprehension  of  that  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  There  shall  be  no  half-confidence,"  he  replied,  shaking 
her  hand,  "  between  us.  Mr.  Dombey  is  unapproachable  by 
any  one,  and  his  state  of  mind  is  haughty,  rash,  unreasonable, 
and  ungovernable,  now.  But  he  is  disturbed  and  agitated 
now  beyond  all  common  bounds,  and  it  may  pass.  You  now 
know  all,  both  worst  and  best.  No  more  to-night,  and  good- 
night !  " 

With  that  he  kissed  her  hand,  and  passing  out  to  the  door 
where  her  brother  stood  awaiting  his  coming,  put  him  cheer*- 
fully  aside  when  he  essayed  to  speak  ;  told  him  that,  as  they 
would  see  each  other  soon  and  often,  he  might  speak  at 
another  time,  if  he  would,  but  there  was  no  leisure  for  it 
then  ;  and  went  away  at  a  round  pace,  in  order  that  no  word 
of  gratitude  might  follow  him. 

The  brother  and  sister  sat  conversing  by  the  fireside,  until 
it  was  almost  day,  made  sleepless  by  this  glimpse  of  the  new 
world  that  opened  before  them,  and  feeling  like  two  people 
shipwrecked  long  ago  upon  a  solitary  coast,  to  whom  a  ship 
had  come  at  last,  when  they  were  old  in  resignation,  and  had 
lost  all  thought  of  any  other  home.  But  another  and  differ- 
ent kind  of  disquietude  kept  them  waking  too.  The  dark- 
ness out  of  which  this  light  had  broken  on  them  gathered 
around  ;  and  the  shadow  of  their  guilty  brother  was  in  the 
house  where  his  foot  had  never  trod. 

Nor  was  it  to  be  driven  out,  nor  did  it  fade  before  the 
sun.  Next  morning  it  was  there  ;  at  noon  ;  at  night.  Dark- 
est and  most  distinct  at  night,  as  is  now  to  be  told. 

John  Carker  had  gone  out,  in  pursuance  of  a  letter  of 
appointment  from  their  friend,  and  Harriet  was  left  in  the 
house  alone.  She  had  been  alone  some  hours.  A  dull, 
grave  evening,  and  a  deepening  twilight,  were  not  favorable 
to  the  removal  of  the  oppression  on  her  spirits.  The  idea 
of  this  brother,  long  unseen  and  unknown,  flitted  about  her 
in  frightful  shapes.  He  was  dead,  dying,  calling  to  her, 
staring  at  her,  frowning  on  her.  The  pictures  in  her  mind 
were  so  obtrusive  and  exact  that,  as  the  twilight  deepened, 


746  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

she  dreaded  to  raise  her  head  and  look  at  the  dark  corners 
of  the  room,  lest  his  wrath,  the  offspring  of  her  excited  imag- 
ination, should  be  waiting  there  to  startle  her.  Once  she 
had  such  a  fancy  of  his  being  in  the  next  room,  hiding — 
though  she  knew  quite  well  what  a  distempered  fancy  it  was, 
and  had  no  belief  in  it — that  she  forced  herself  to  go  there, 
for  her  own  conviction.  But  in  vain.  The  room  resumed 
its  shadowy  terrors,  the  moment  she  left  it ;  and  she  had  no 
more  power  to  divest  herself  of  these  vague  impressions  of 
dread,  than  if  they  had  been  stone  giants,  rooted  in  the 
solid  earth. 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  she  was  sitting  near  the  window, 
with  her  head  upon  her  hand,  looking  down,  when,  sensible 
of  a  sudden  increase  in  the  gloom  of  the  apartment,  she 
raised  her  eyes,  and  uttered  an  involuntary  cry.  Close  to 
the  glass,  a  pale  scared  face  gazed  in  ;  vacantly,  for  an  instant, 
as  searching  for  an  object ;  then  the  eyes  rested  on  herself, 
and  lighted  up. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  in  !  I  want  to  speak  to  you  !  "  and 
the  hand  rattled  on  the  glass. 

She  recognized  immediately  the  woman  with  the  long 
dark  hair,  to  whom  she  had  given  warmth,  food,  and  shel- 
ter, one  wet  night.  Naturally  afraid  of  her,  remembering 
her  violent  behavior,  Harriet,  retreating  a  little  from  the 
window,  stood  undecided  and  alarmed. 

"  Let  me  in  !  Let  me  speak  to  you  !  I  am  thankful — ' 
quiet — humble — any  thing  you  like.  But  let  me  speak  to 
you." 

The  vehement  manner  of  the  entreaty,  the  earnest  expres- 
sion of  the  face,  the  trembling  of  the  two  hands  that  were 
raised  imploringly,  a  certain  dread  and  terror  in  the  voice 
akin  to  her  own  condition  at  the  moment,  prevailed  with 
Harriet.     She  hastened  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"  May  I  come  in,  or  shall  I  speak  here  ? "  said  the  woman, 
catching  at  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  ?  What  is  it  that  you  have  to 
say  !  " 

"  Not  much,  but  let  me  say  it  out,  or  I  shall  never  say  it. 
I  am  tempted  now  to  go  away.  There  seem  to  be  hands 
dragging  me  from  the  door.  Let  me  come  in,  if  you  can 
trust  me  for  this  once  !  " 

Her  energy  again  prevailed,  and  they  passed  into  the  fire- 
light of  the  little  kitchen,  where  she  had  before  sat,  and  ate, 
and  dried  her  clothes. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  747 

"Sit  there,"  said  Alice,  kneeling  down  beside  her,  "and 
look  at  me.     You  remember  me  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  You  remember  what  I  told  you  I  had  been,  and  where 
I  came  from,  ragged  and  lame,  with  the  fierce  wind  and 
weather  beating  on  my  head  ?  " 

''  Yes." 

"  You  know  how  I  came  back  that  night,  and  threw  your 
money  in  the  dirt,  and  cursed  you  and  your  race.  Now, 
see  me  here,  upon  my  knees.  Am  I  less  earnest  now  than  I 
was  then  ? " 

"  If  what  you  ask,"  said  Harriet,  gently,  "  is  forgive- 
ness— " 

"  But  it's  not  !  "  returned  the  other,  with  a  proud,  fierce 
look.  ''What  I  ask  is  to  be  believed.  Now  you  shall  judge 
if  I  am  worthy  of  belief,  both  as  I  was  and  as  I  am." 

Still  upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  eyes  upon  the  fire,  and 
the  fire  shining  on  her  ruined  beauty  and  her  wild  black  hair, 
one  long  tress  of  which  she  pulled  over  her  shoulder  and 
wound  about  her  hand,  and  thoughtfully  bit  and  tore  while 
speaking,  she  went  on  : 

"  When  I  was  young  and  pretty,  and  this,"  plucking  con- 
temptuously at  the  hair  she  held,  "  was  only  handled  deli- 
catelv,  and  couldn't  be  admired  enough,  my  mother,  who  had 
not  been  very  mindful  of  me  as  a  child,  found  out  my  merits, 
and  was  fond  of  me,  and  proud  of  me.  She  was  covetous 
and  poor,  and  thought  to  make  a  sort  of  property  of  me.  No 
great  lady  ever  thought  that  of  a  daughter  yet,  I'm  sure,  or 
acted  as  if  she  did — it's  never  done,  we  all  know — and  that 
shows  that  the  only  instances  of  mothers  bringing  up  their 
daughters  wrong,  and  evil  coming  of  it,  are  among  such 
miserable  folks  as  us." 

Looking  at  the  fire  as  if  she  were  forgetful,  for  the  moment, 
of  having  any  auditor,  she  continued  in  a  dreamy  way,  as 
she  wound  the  long  tress  of  hair  tight  round  and  round  her 
hand. 

''  What  came  of  that,  I  needn't  say.  Wretched  marriages 
don't  come  of  such  things,  in  our  degree  ;  only  wretchedness 
and  ruin.  Wretchedness  and  ruin  came  on  me — came  on 
me." 

Raising  her  eyes  swiftly  from  their  moody  gaze  upon  the 
fire  to  Harriet's  face,  she  said  : 

"  I  am  wasting  time,  and  there  is  none  to  spare  ;  yet  if  I 
hadn't  thought  of  all,  I  shouldn't  be  here  now.     Wretched- 


748  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

ness  and  ruin  came  on  me,  I  say.  I  was  made  a  short-lived 
toy,  and  flung  aside  more  cruelly  and  carelessly  than  even 
such  things  are.     By  whose  hand,  do  you  think  ?  " 

''  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ?  "  rejoined  Alice,  with  an  eagei 
look.  "  His  usage  made  a  devil  of  me.  I  sunk  in  wretched- 
ness and  ruin,  lower  and  lower  yet.  I  was  concerned  in  a 
robbery — in  every  part  of  it  but  the  gains — and  was  found 
out,  and  sent  to  be  tried,  without  a  friend,  without  a  penny. 
Though  I  was  but  a  girl,  I  would  have  gone  to  death  sooner 
than  ask  him  for  a  word,  if  a  word  of  his  could  have  saved 
me.  I  would  !  To  any  death  that  could  have  been  invented. 
But  my  mother,  covetous  always,  sent  to  him  in  my  name, 
told  the  true  story  of  my  case,  and  humbly  prayed  and  peti- 
tioned for  a  small  last  gift — for  not  so  many  pounds  as  I 
have  fingers  on  this  hand.  Who  was  it,  do  you  think,  who 
snapped  his  fingers  at  me  in  my  misery,  lying,  as  he  believed, 
at  his  feet,  and  left  me,  without  even  this  poor  sign  of  remem- 
brance ;  well  satisfied  that  I  should  be  sent  abroad,  beyond 
the  reach  of  further  trouble  to  him,  and  should  die,  and  rot 
there  ?     Who  was  this,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  "  repeated  Harriet. 

"  Why  do  you  tremble  ?  "  said  Alice,  laying  her  hand  upon 
her  arm,  and  looking  in  her  face,  "  but  that  the  answer  is 
on  your  lips  !     It  was  your  brother  James." 

Harriet  trembled  more  and  more,  but  did  not  avert  her 
eyes  from  the  eager  look  that  rested  on  them. 

"  When  I  knew  you  were  his  sister — which  was  on  that 
night — I  came  back,  weary  and  lame,  to  spurn  your  gift.  I 
felt  that  night  as  if  I  could  have  traveled,  weary  and  lame, 
over  the  whole  world,  to  stab  him,  if  I  could  have  found  him 
in  a  lonely  place  with  no  one  near.  Do  you  believe  that  I 
was  in  earnest  in  all  that?" 

"  I  do  !      Good  heaven,  why  are  you  come  again  ?  " 

"  Since  then,"  said  Alice,  with  the  same  grasp  of  her  arm, 
and  the  same  look  in  her  face,  **  I  have  seen  him  !  I  have 
followed  him  with  my  eyes  in  the  broad  day.  If  any  spark 
of  my  resentment  slumbered  in  my  bosom,  it  sprung  into  a 
blaze  when  my  eyes  rested  on  him.  You  know  he  has  wronged 
a  proud  man,  and  made  him  his  deadly  enemy.  What  if  I 
had  given  information  of  him  to  that  man  ?  " 

"  Information  !  "  repeated  Harriet. 

*'  What  if  I  had  found  out  one  who  knew  your  brother's 
secret ;  who  knew  the  manner  of  his  flight ;  who  knew  where 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  749 

he  and  the  companion  of  his  flight  were  gone  ?  What  if  I 
had  made  him  utter  all  his  knowledge,  word  by  word,  before 
his  enemy,  concealed  to  hear  it  ?  What  if  I  had  sat  by  at 
the  time,' looking  into  this  enemy's  face,  and  seeing  it  change 
till  it  was  scarcely  human  ?  What  if  I  had  seen  him  rush 
away,  mad,  in  pursuit  ?  What  if  I  knew  now  that  he  was  on 
his  road,  more  fiend  than  man,  and  must,  in  so  many  hours, 
come  up  with  him  ?  " 

"Remove  your  hand!"  said  Harriet,  recoiling.  "Go 
away !     Your  touch  is  dreadful  to  me  !  " 

"1  have   done  this,"  pursued  the  other,  with  her  eager 
look,  regardless  of  the  interruption.     "  Do  I  speak  and  look 
as  if  I  really  had?     Do  you  believe  what  I  am  saying  ? " 
"  I  fear  I  must.     Let  my  arm  go  !  " 

"  Not  yet.  A  moment  more.  You  can  think  what  my 
revengeful  purpose  must  have  been,  to  last  so  long,  and  urge 
me  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Dreadful  !  "  said  Harriet. 

"  Then  when  you  see  me  now,"  said  Alice,  hoarsely,  "  here 
again,  kneeling  quietly  on  the  ground,  with  my  touch  upon 
your  arm,  with  my  eyes  upon  your  face,  you  may  believe 
that  there  is  no  common  earnestness  in  what  I  say,  and  that 
no  common  struggle  has  been  battling  in  my  breast.  I  am 
ashamed  to  speak  the  words,  but  I  relent.  I  despise  myself  ; 
I  have  fought  with  myself  all  day  and  all  last  night  ;  but  I 
relent  toward  him  without  reason,  and  wish  to  repair  what  I 
have  done,  if  it  is  possible.  I  wouldn't  have  them  come 
together  while  his  pursuer  is  so  blind  and  headlong.  If  you 
had  seen  him  as  he  went  out  last  night,  you  would  know  the 
danger  better." 

"  How  shall  it  be  prevented  !  What  can  I  do  !  "  cried 
Harriet. 

"  All  night  long,"  pursued  the  other,  hurriedly,  "  I  had 
dreams  of  him — and  yet  I  didn't  sleep — in  his  blood.  All 
day  I  have  had  him  near  me." 

"  What  can  I  do  ! '  '  cried  Harriet,  shuddering  at  these 
words. 

"  If  there  is  any  one  who'll  write,  or   send,  or  go  to   him, 
let  them  lose  no  time.     He  is  at  Dijon.     Do  you  know  the 
name,  and  where  it  is  ?  " 
"Yes." 

"  Warn  him  that  the  man  he  has  made  his  enemy  is  in  a 
frenzy,  and  that  he  doesn't  know  him  if  he  makes  Hght  of  his 
approach.     Tell  him  that  he  is  on  the  road— I  know  he  is  ! 


750  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

— and  hurrying  on.  Urge  him  to  get  away  while  there  is 
time — if  there  is  time — and  not  to  meet  him  yet.  A  month 
or  so  will  make  years  of  difference.  Let  them  not  encounter, 
through  me.  Anywhere  but  there  !  Any  time  but  now  ! 
Let  his  foe  follow  him,  and  find  him  for  himself,  but  not 
through   me  !     There  is  enough  upon  my  head  without." 

The  fire  ceased  to  be  reflected  in  her  jet-black  hair,  up- 
lifted face,  and  eager  eyes  ;  her  hand  was  gone  from  Har- 
riet's arm  ;  and  the  place  where  she  had  been  was  empty. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

THE     FUGITIVES. 

The  time,  an  hour  short  of  midnight  ;  the  place  a  French 
apartment,  comprising  some  half-dozen  rooms  ; — a  dull  cold 
hall  or  corridor,  a  dining-room,  a  drawing-room,  abed-cham- 
ber, and  an  inner  drawing-room,  or  boudoir,  smaller  and 
more  retired  than  the  rest.  All  these  shut  in  by  one  large 
pair  of  doors  on  the  main  staircase,  but  each  room  provided 
with  two  or  three  pairs  of  doors  of  its  own,  establishing  sev- 
eral means  of  communication  with  the  remaining  portion  of 
the  apartment,  or  with  certain  small  passages  within  the  wall, 
leading,  as  is  not  unusual  in  such  houses,  to  some  back  stairs 
with  an  obscure  outlet  below.  The  whole  situated  on  the 
first  floor  of  so  large  a  hotel,  that  it  did  not  absorb  one  entire 
row  of  windows  upon  one  side  of  the  square  court-yard  in 
the  center,  upon  which  the  whole  four  sides  of  the  man- 
sion looked. 

An  air  of  splendor,  sufficiently  faded  to  be  melancholy, 
and  sufficiently  dazzling  to  clog  and  embarrass  the  details  of 
life  with  a  show  of  state,  reigned  in  these  rooms.  The  walls 
and  ceilings  were  glided  and  painted  ;  the  floors  were  waxed 
and  polished  ;  crimson  drapery  hung  in  festoons  from  win- 
dow, door,  and  mirror  ;  candelabra,  gnarled  and  intertwisted, 
like  the  branches  of  trees,  or  horns  of  animals,  stuck  out 
from  the  panels  of  the  wall.  But  in  the  day-time,  when  the 
lattice-blinds  (now  closely  shut)  were  opened,  and  the  light 
let  in,  traces  were  discernible  among  this  finery,  of  wear  and 
tear  and  dust,  of  sun  and  damp  and  smoke,  and  lengthened 
intervals  of  want  of  use  and  habitation,  when  such  shows 
and  toys  of  life  seem  sensitive  like  life,  and  waste  as  men 
§but  up  in  prison  do,     Even  night,  and  clusters  of  burning 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  fjt 

Candles,  could  not  wholly  efface  them,  though  the  general 
glitter  threw  them  in  the  shade. 

The  glitter  of  bright  tapers,  and  their  reflection  in  looking-- 
glasses,  scraps  of  gilding  and  gay  colors,  were  confined,  on 
this  night,  to  one  room — that  smaller  room  within  the  rest, 
just  now  enumerated.  Seen  from  the  hall,  where  a  lamp  was 
feebly  burning,  through  the  dark  perspective  of  open  doors, 
it  looked  as  shining  and  precious  as  a  gem.  In  the  heart  of 
its  radiance  sat  a  beautiful  woman — Edith. 

She  was  alone.  The  same  defiant,  scornful  woman  still. 
The  cheek  a  little  worn,  the  eye  a  Httle  larger  in  appearance, 
and  more  lustrous,  but  the  haughty  bearing  just  the  same. 
No  shame  upon  her  brow  ;  no  late  repentance  bending  her 
disdainful  neck.  Imperious  and  stately  yet,  and  yet  regard- 
less of  herself  and  of  all  else,  she  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  cast 
down,  waiting  for  some  one. 

No  book,  no  work,  no  occupation  of  any  kind  but  her  own 
thoughts,  beguiled  the  tardy  time.  Some  purpose,  strong 
enough  to  fill  up  any  pause  possessed  her.  With  her  lips 
pressed  together,  and  quivering  if  for  a  moment  she  released 
them  from  her  control  ;  with  her  nostril  inflated  ;  her  hands 
clasped  in  one  another  ;  and  her  purpose  swelling  in  her 
breast  ;  she  sat,  and  waited. 

At  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer  door,  and  a  footstep  in 
the  hall,  she  started  up,  and  cried  "Who's  that?"  The 
answer  was  in  French,  and  two  men  came  in  with  jingling 
trays,  to  make  preparation  for  supper. 

"  Who  had  bade  them  to  do  so  ? "  she  asked. 
"  Monsieur  had  commanded   it,   when    it  was  his  pleasure 
to  take  the   apartment.     Monsieur  had  said,    when  he  staid 
there  for  an  hour,  en  route,  and  left  the  letter  for  madam — 
madam  had  received  it  surely  ?" 
''Yes." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  The  sudden  apprehension  that  it 
might  have  been  forgotten  had  struck  him  ;  "  a  bald  man 
with  a  large  beard  from  a  neighboring  restaurant :  ''  with 
despair  !  Monsieur  had  said  that  supper  was  to  be  ready  at 
that  hour  ;  also  that  he  had  forwarned  madam  of  the  com- 
mands he  had  given,  in  his  letter.  Monsieur  had  done  the 
Golden  Head  the  honor  to  request  that  the  supper  should 
be  choice  and  delicate.  Monsieur  would  find  that  his  con- 
fidence in  the  Golden  Head  was  not  misplaced." 

Edith  said  no  more,  but  looked  on  thoughtfully  while  they 
prepared  the  table  for  two  persons,  and  set  the  wine  upon 


?S2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

it.  She  ai'ose  before  they  had  finished,  and,  taking  a  lamp, 
passed  into  the  bed-chamber  and  into  the  drawing-room, 
where  she  hurriedly  but  narrowly  examined  all  the  doors  ; 
particularly  one  in  the  former  room  that  opened  on  the  pas- 
sage in  the  wall.  From  this  she  took  the  key,  and  put  it  on 
the  outer  side.     She  then  came  back. 

The  men — the  second  of  whom  was  a  dark,  bilious  sub- 
ject, in  a  jacket,  close  shaved,  and  with  a  black  head  of  hair 
close  cropped — had  completed  their  preparation  of  the  table, 
and  were  standing  looking  at  it.  He  who  had  spoken  before, 
inquired  whether  madam  thought  it  would  be  long  before 
monsieur  arrived  ? 

"  She  couldn't  say.     It  was  all  one." 

"  Pardon  !  There  was  the  supper  !  It  should  be  eaten  on 
the  instant.  Monsieur  (who  spoke  French  like  an  angel — 
or  a  Frenchman — it  was  all  the  same)  had  spoken  with  great 
emphasis  of  his  punctuality.  But  the  English  nation  had  so 
grand  a  genius  for  punctuality.  Ah  !  what  noise  !  Great 
heaven,  here  was  monsieur.     Behold  nimx  !  " 

In  effect,  monsieur,  admitted  by  the  other  of  the  two, 
came,  with  his  gleaming  teeth,  through  the  dark  rooms,  like 
a  mouth  ;  and  arriving  in  that  sanctuary  of  light  and  color, 
a  figure  at  full  length,  embraced  madam,  and  addressed 
her  in  the  French  tongue  as  his  charming  wife. 

"  My  God  !  Madam  is  going  to  faint.  Madam  is  over- 
come with  joy  !  "  The  bald  man  with  the  beard  observed  it, 
and  cried  out. 

Madam  had  only  shrunk  and  shivered.  Before  the  words 
were  spoken,  she  was  standing  .with  her  hand  upon  the  vel- 
vet back  of  a  great  chair  ;  her  figure  drawn  up  to  its  full 
height,  and  her  face  immovable. 

"  Frangois  has  flown  over  to  the  Golden  Head  for  supper. 
He  flies  on  these  occasions  like  an  angel  or  a  bird.  The 
baggage  of  monsieur  is  in  his  room.  All  is  arranged.  The 
supper  will  be  here  this  moment."  These  facts  the  bald  man 
notified  with  bows  and  smiles,  and  presently  the  supper  came. 

The  hot  dishes  were  on  a  chafing-dish  ;  the  cold  already 
set  forth,  with  the  change  of  service  on  a  sideboard.  Mon- 
sieur was  satisfied  with  this  arrangement.  The  supper- 
table  being  small,  it  pleased  him  very  well.  Let  them  set 
the  chafing-dish  upon  the  floor,  and  go.  He  would  remove 
the  dishes  with  his  own  hands. 

*'  Pardon  !  "  said  the  bald  man,  politely.  "It  was  impos- 
sible!" 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  753 

Monsieur  was  of  another  opinion.  He  required  no  fur- 
ther attendance  that  night. 

"  But  madam — "  the  bald  man  hinted. 

"Madam,"  repUed  monsieur,  "had  her  own  maid.  It 
was  enough." 

"  A  million  pardons  !  No  !  Madam  had  no  maid  !  " 

"  I  came  here  alone,"  said  Edith.  "  It  was  my  choice  to 
do  so.  I  am  well  used  to  traveling  ;  I  want  no  attendance. 
They  need  send  nobody  to  me." 

Monsieur  accordingly,  persevering  in  his  first  proposed 
impossibility,  proceeded  to  follow  the  two  attendants  to  the 
outer  door,  and  secure  it  after  them  for  the  night.  The 
bald  man  turning  round  to  bow,  as  he  went  out,  observed 
that  madam  still  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  velvet  back 
of  the  great  chair,  and  that  her  face  was  quite  regardless  of 
him,  though  she  was  looking  straight  before  her. 

As  the  sound  of  Carker's  fastening  the  door  resounded 
through  the  intermediate  rooms,  and  seemed  to  come  hushed 
and  stifled  into  that  last  distant  one,  the  sound  of  the  cathe- 
dral clock  striking  twelve  mingled  with  it,  in  Edith's  ears. 
She  heard  him  pause,  as  if  he  heard  it  too  and  listened  ;  and 
then  came  back  toward  her,  laying  a  long  train  of  footsteps 
through  the  silence,  and  shutting  all  the  doors  behind  him 
as  he  came  along.  Her  hand  for  a  moment  left  the  velvet 
chair  to  bring  a  knife  within  her  reach  upon  the  table  ;  then 
she  stood  as  she  had  stood  before. 

"  How  strange  to  come  here  by  yourself,  my  love,"  he  said, 
as  he  entered. 

"What  ?"  she  returned. 

Her  tone  was  so  harsh  ;  the  quick  turn  of  her  head  so 
fierce  ;  her  attitude  so  repellent ;  and  her  frown  so  black, 
that  he  stood,  with  the  lamp  in  his  hand,  looking  at  her,  as 
if  she  had  struck  him  motionless. 

"  I  say,"  he  at  length  repeated,  putting  down  the  lamp, 
and  smiling  his  most  courtly  smile,  "  how  strange  to  come 
here  alone  !  It  was  unnecessary  caution  surely,  and  might 
have  defeated  itself.  You  were  to  have  engaged  an  attend- 
ant at  Havre  or  Rouen,  and  have  had  abundance  of  time 
for  the  purpose,  though  you  had  been  the  most  capricious 
and  difficult  (as  you  are  the  most  beautiful,  my  love)  of 
women." 

Her  eyes  gleamed  strangely  on  him,  but  she  stood  with  her 
hand  resting  on  the  chair,  and  said  not  a  word. 

"  I  have  never,"  resumed  Carker,  "  seen  you  look  so  hand- 


754  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

some  as  you  do  to-night.  Even  the  picture  I  have  carried 
in  my  mind  during  this  cruel  probation,  and  which  I  have 
contemplated  night  and  day,  is  exceeded  by  the  reality." 

Not  a  word.  Not  a  look.  Her  eyes  completely  hidden  by 
their  drooping  lashes,  but  her  head  held  up. 

'*  Hard,  unrelenting  terms  they  were  !  "  said  Carker,  with 
a  smile,  ^'  but  they  are  all  fulfilled  and  passed,  and  make  the 
present  more  delicious  and  more  safe.  Sicily  shall  be  the 
place  of  our  retreat.  In  the  idlest  and  easiest  part  of  the 
world,  my  soul,  we'll  both  seek  compensation  for  old 
slavery." 

He  was  coming  gayly  toward  her,  when,  in  an  instant,  she 
caught  the  knife  up  from  the  table,  and  started  one  pace 
back. 

"  Stand  still  !  "  she  said,  "  or  I  shall  murder  you  !  " 

The  sudden  change  in  her,  the  towering  fury  and  intense 
abhorrence  sparkling  in  her  eyes  and  lighting  up  her  brow 
made  him  stop  as  if  a  fire  had  stopped  him. 

''Stand  still!  "  she  said,  "come  no  nearer  me,  upon  your 
life!  " 

They  both  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Rage  and  aston- 
ishment were  in  his  face,  but  he  controlled  them,  and  said, 
lightly: 

"Come,  come!  Tush,  we  are  alone,  and  out  of  every 
body's  sight  and  hearing.  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me  with 
these  tricks  of  virtue  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  to  frighten  me,"  she  answered  fiercely, 
"  from  any  purpose  that  I  have,  and  any  course  that  I  am 
resolved  upon,  by  reminding  me  of  the  solitude  of  this  place, 
and  there  being  no  help  near  ?  Me,  who  am  here  alone, 
designedly  ?  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  not  have  avoided 
you  !  If  I  feared  you,  should  I  be  here,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  telling  you  to  your  face  what  I  am  going  to  tell  ?" 

"And  what  is  that  ?  "  he  said,  "  you  handsome  shrew  ? 
Handsomer  so  than  any  other  woman  in  her  best  humor?" 

"  I  tell  you  nothing,"  she  returned,  "  until  you  go  back 
to  that  chair — except  this,  once  again — Don't  come  near 
me!  Not  a  step  nearer.  I  tell  you,  if  you  do  so,  as  heaven 
sees  us,  I  shall  murder  you!  " 

"Do  you  mistake  me  for  your  husband?"  he  retorted, 
with  a  grin. 

Disdaining  to  reply,  she  stretched  her  arm  out,  pointing 
to  a  chair.  He  bit  his  lip,  frowned,  laughed,  and  sat  down 
in  it,  with  a  bafiied,  irresolute,  impatient  air  he  was  unable 


DOMBEY  AND   SON.  755 

to  conceal,  and  biting  his  nail  nervously,  and  looking  at  her 
sideways,  with  bitter  discomfiture,  even  while  he  feigned  to 
be  amused  by  her  caprice. 

She  put  the  knife  down  upon  the  table,  and,  touching  her 
bosom  with  her  hand,  said: 

"  I  have  something  here  that  is  no  love  trinket;  and  sooner 
than  endure  your  touch  once  more,  I  would  use  it  on  you — 
and  you  know  it,  while  I  speak — with  less  reluctance  than  I 
would  on  any  other  creeping  thing  that  lives." 

He  affected  to  laugh  jestingly,  and  entreated  her  to  act 
her  play  out  quickly,  for  the  supper  was  growing  cold.  But 
the  secret  look  with  which  he  regarded  her  was  more  sullen 
and  lowering,  and  he  struck  his  foot  once  upon  the  floor 
with  a  muttered  oath. 

*'How  many  times,"  said  Edith,  bending  her  darkest 
glance  upon  him,  "  has  your  bold  knavery  assailed  me  with 
outrage  and  insult  ?  How  many  times  in  your  smooth  man- 
ner, and  mocking  words  and  looks,  have  I  been  twitted  with 
my  courtship  and  my  marriage  !  How  many  times  have  you 
laid  bare  my  wound  of  love  for  that  sweet,  injured  girl,  and 
lacerated  it  ?  How  often  have  you  fanned  the  fire  on  which, 
for  two  years,  I  have  writhed,  and  tempted  me  to  take  a  des- 
perate revenge,  when  it  has  most  tortured  me  !  " 

''  I  have  no  doubt,  ma'am,"  he  replied,  "  that  you  have 
kept  a  good  account,  and  that  it's  pretty  accurate.  Come, 
Edith.  To  your  husband,  poor  wretch,  this  was  well 
enough — " 

"Why,  if,"  she  said,  surveying  him  with  a  haughty  con- 
tempt and  disgust  that  he  shrunk  under,  let  him  brave  it  as 
he  would,  "  if  all  my  other  reasons  for  despising  him  could 
have  been  blown  away  like  feathers,  his  having  you  for  his 
counselor  and  favorite  would  have  almost  been  enough  to 
hold  their  place." 

"  Is  that  a  reason  why  you  have  run  away  with  me  ? "  he 
asked  her,  tauntingly. 

"  Yes,  and  why  we  are  face  to  face  for  the  last  time. 
Wretch  !  We  meet  to-night,  and  part  to-night.  For  not 
one  moment  after  I  have  ceased  to  speak,  will  I  stay  here  !  " 

He  turned  upon  her  with  his  ugliest  look,  and  griped  the 
table  with  his  hand  ;  but  neither  rose,  nor  otherwise 
answered  or  threatened  her. 

"  I  am  a  woman,"  she  said,  confronting  him  steadfastly, 
"  who  from  her  very  childhood  has  been  shamed  and  steeled. 
I  have  been  offered  and  rejected,  put  up  and  appraised, 


75^  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

until  my  very  soul  has  sickened.  I  have  not  had  an  aceorn- 
plishment  or  grace  that  might  have  been  a  resource  to  me, 
but_  it  has  been  paraded  and  vended  to  enhance  my  value, 
as  if  the  common  crier  had  called  it  through  the  streets. 
My  poor,  proud  friends  have  looked  on  and  approved  ;  and 
every  tie  between  us  has  been  deadened  in  my  breast. 
There  is  not  one  of  them  for  whom  I  care  as  I  could  care 
for  a  pet  dog.  I  stand  alone  in  the  world,  remembering 
well  what  a  hollow  world  it  has  been  to  me,  and  what  a 
hollow  part  of  it  I  have  been  myself.  You  know  this,  and 
you  know  that  my  fame  with  it  is  worthless  to  me." 

"  Yes  ;  I  imagined  that,"  he  said. 

" And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined,  "and  so  pursued 
me.  Grown  too  indifferent  for  any  opposition  but  indiffer- 
ence, to  the  daily  working  of  the  hands  that  had  molded 
me  to  this  ;  and  knowing  that  my  marriage  would  at  least 
prevent  their  hawking  of  me  up  and  down,  I  suffered 
myself  to  be  sold  as  infamously  as  any  woman  with  a  halter 
round  her  neck  is  sold  in  any  market-place.  You  kno\r 
that." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  showing  all  his  teeth.     "  I  know  that." 

"And  calculated  on  it,"  she  rejoined  once  more,  "and  s) 
pursued  me.  From  my  marriage-day,  I  found  myself 
exposed  to  such  new  shame — to  such  solicitation  and  pursuit 
(expressed  as  clearly  as  if  it  had  been  written  in  the  coarsest 
words,  and  thrust  into  my  hand  at  every  turn)  from  one 
mean  villain,  that  I  felt  as  if  I  had  never  known  humiUa' 
tion  till  that  time.  This  shame  my  husband  fixed  upon  me  ; 
hemmed  me  round  with,  himself  ;  steeped  me  in,  with  his 
own  hands,  and  of  his  own  act,  repeated  hundreds  of  timefi. 
And  thus — forced  by  the  two  from  every  point  of  rest  I  had 
— forced  by  the  two  to  yield  up  the  last  retreat  of  love  and 
gentleness  within  me,  or  to  be  a  new  misfortune  on  its 
innocent  object — driven  from  each  to  each,  and  beset  by 
one  when  I  escaped  the  other — my  anger  rose  almost  to 
distraction  against  both.  I  do  not  know  against  which  it 
rose  higher — the  master  or  the  man  !  " 

He  watched  her  closely,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  the 
very  triumph  of  her  indignant  beauty.  She  was  resolute,  he 
saw  ;  undauntable  ;  with  no  more  fear  of  him  than  of  a 
worm. 

"  What  should  I  say  of  honor  or  chastity  to  you  !  "  she 
went  on.  "  What  meaning  would  it  have  to  you  ;  what 
meaning  would  it  have  from  me  !     But  if  I  tell  you  that 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  757 

tlie  lightest  touch  of  your  hand  makes  my  blood  cold  with 
antipathy  ;  that  from  the  hour  when  I  first  saw  and  hated 
you  to  now,  when  my  instinctive  repugnance  is  enhanced 
by  every  minute's  knowledge  of  you  I  have  since  had,  you 
have  been  a  loathsome  creature  to  me  which  has  not  its  like 
on  earth  ;  how  then  ? " 

He  answered,  with  a  faint  laugh,  *'  Ah  !  How  then,  my 
queen  ?  " 

"  On  that  night,  when,  emboldened  by  the  scene  you  had 
assisted  at,  you  dared  come  to  my  room  and  speak  to  me," 
she  said,  ''  what  passed  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  laughed  again. 

"  What  passed  ?  "  she  said. 

"Your  memory  is  so  distinct,"  he  returned,  "that  I  have 
no  doubt  you  can  recall  it." 

"  I  can,"  she  said.  "  Hear  it !  Proposing,  then,  this 
flight — not  this  flight,  but  the  flight  you  thought  it — you 
told  me  that  in  the  having  given  you  that  meeting,  and 
leaving  you  to  be  discovered  there,  if  you  so  thought  fit  ; 
and  in  the  having  suffered  you  to  be  alone  with  me  many 
times  before,  and  having  made  the  opportunities,  you  said, 
and  in  the  having  openly  avowed  to  you  that  I  had  no  feel- 
ing for  my  husband  but  aversion,  and  no  care  for  myself,  I 
was  lost  ;  I  had  given  you  the  power  to  traduce  my  name  ; 
and  I  lived,  in  virtuous  reputation,  at  the  pleasure  of  youi 
breath." 

"  All  stratagems  in  love — "  he  interrupted,  smiling.  "  Tl^e 
old  adage — " 

"  On  that  night,"  said  Edith,  "  and  then,  the  struggle 
that  I  long  had  had  with  something  that  was  not  respect 
for  my  good  fame — that  was  I  know  not  what — perhaps  the 
clinging  to  that  last  retreat — was  ended.  On  that  night, 
and  then,  I  turned  from  every  thing  but  passion  and  resent- 
ment. I  struck  a  blow  that  laid  your  lofty  master  in  the 
dust,  and  set  you  there  before  me,  looking  at  me  now,  and 
knowing  what  I  mean." 

He  sprung  up  from  his  chair  with  a  great  oath.  She  put 
her  hand  into  her  bosom,  and  not  a  finger  trembled,  not  a 
hair  upon  her  head  was  stirred.  He  stood  still  ;  she  too  ; 
the  table  and  chair  between  them. 

'*  When  I  forget  that  this  man  put  his  lips  to  mine  that 
night,  and  held  me  in  his  arms  as  he  has  done  again  to-night," 
said  Edith,  pointing  at  him  ;  "  when  I  forget  the  taint  of 
his  kiss  upon  my  cheek — the  cheek  that  Florence  would 


758  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

have  laid  her  guiltless  face  against — when  I  forget  my  tneer- 
ing  with  her,  while  that  taint  was  hot  upon  me,  and  in  what 
a  flood  the  knowledge  rushed  upon  me  when  I  saw  hei-, 
that  in  releasing  her  from  the  persecution  I  had  caused  by 
my  love,  I  brought  a  shame  and  degradation  on  her  name 
through  mine,  and  in  all  time  to  come  should  be  the  solitary 
figure  representing  in  her  mind  her  first  avoidance  of  a 
guilty  creature — then,  husband,  from  whom  I  stand 
divorced  henceforth,  I  will  forget  these  last  two  years,  and 
undo  what  I  have  done,  and  undeceive  you  !  " 

Her  flashing  eyes,  uplifted  for  a  moment,  lighted  again  on 
Carker,  and  she  held  some  letters  out  in  her  left  hand. 

"  See  these  ! "  she  said,  contemptuously.  *'  You  have 
addressed  these  to  me  in  the  false  name  you  go  by  ;  one 
here  ;  some  elsewhere  on  my  road.  The  seals  are  unbroken, 
Take  them  back  !  " 

She  crunched  them  in  her  hand,  and  tossed  them  to  hi:; 
feet.  And  as  she  looked  upon  him  now,  a  smile  was  on 
her  face. 

"  We  meet  and  part  to-night,"  she  said.  "  You  hav-p 
fallen  on  Sicilian  days  and  sensual  rest  too  soon.  You  might 
have  cajoled,  and  fawned,  and  played  your  traitor's  part  % 
little  longer,  and  grown  richer.  You  purchase  your 
voluptuous  retirement  dear  !  " 

"  Edith!  "  he  retorted,  menacing  her  with  his  hand.  "  Sit 
down!     Have  done  with  this!     What  devil  possesses  you  ? " 

'*  Their  name  is  legion,"  she  replied,  uprearing  her  proud 
form  as  if  she  would  have  crushed  him;  "  you  and  your  mas- 
ter have  raised  them  in  a  fruitful  house,  and  they  shall  tear 
you  both.  False  to  him,  false  to  his  innocent  child,  false 
every  way  and  everywhere,  go  forth  and  boast  of  me,  and 
gnash  your  teeth  for  once  to  know  that  you  are  lying  !" 

He  stood  before  her  muttering  and  menacing,  and  scowl- 
ing round  as  if  for  something  that  would  help  him  to  con- 
quer her;  but  with  the  same  indomitable  spirit  she  opposed 
him,  without  faltering. 

"  In  every  vaunt  you  make,"  she  said,  "  I  have  my  triumph. 
I  single  out  in  you  the  meanest  man  I  know,  the  parasite  and 
tool  of  the  proud  tyrant,  that  his  wound  may  go  the  deeper, 
and  may  rankle  more.  Boast,  and  revenge  me  on  him!  You 
know  how  you  came  here  to-night;  you  know  how  you  stand 
cowering  there;  you  see  yourself  in  colors  quite  as  despic- 
able, if  not  as  odious,  as  those  in  which  I  see  you.  Boast, 
then,  and  revenge  me  on  yourself." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  759 

The  foam  was  on  his  lips;  the  wet  stood  on  his  forehead. 
If  she  would  have  faltered  once  for  only  one  half  moment, 
he  would  have  pinioned  her;  but  she  was  as  firm  as  a  rock, 
and  her  searching  eyes  never  left  him. 

''  We  don't  part  so,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  drivel- 
ing, to  let  you  go  in  your  mad  temper  ? " 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  answered,    "  that  I  am  to  be  staid  ? " 
"  I'll  try,  my  dear,"  he  said,  with  a  ferocious  gesture  of 
his  head. 

"God's  mercy  on  you,  if  you  try  by  coming  near  me!" 
she  replied. 

''And  what,"  he  said,  "  if  there  are  none  of  these  same 
boasts  and  vaunts  on  my  part  ?  What  if  I  were  to  turn,  too  ? 
Come  !  "  and  his  teeth  fairly  shone  again.  "  We  must  make 
a  treaty  of  this,  or  /  may  take  some  unexpected  course.  Sit 
down,  sit  down!  " 

''Too  late!'  she  cried,  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  sparkle 
fire.  "  I  have  thrown  my  fame  and  good  name  to  the  winds! 
I  have  resolved  to  bear  the  shame  that  will  attach  to  me — 
resolved  to  know  that  it  attaches  falsely — that  you  know  it, 
too — and  that  he  does  not,  never  can,  and  never  shall.  I'll 
die,  and  make  no  sign.  For  this,  I  am  here  alone  with  you 
at  the  dead  of  night.  For  this,  I  have  met  you  here,  in  a 
false  name,  as  your  wife.  For  this,  I  have  been  seen  here 
by  those  men,  and  left  here.  Nothing  can  save  you  now." 
He  would  have  sold  his  soul  to  root  her,  in  her  beauty,  to 
the  floor,  and  make  her  arms  drop  at  her  sides,  and  have  her 
at  his  mercy.  But  he  could  not  look  at  her,  and  not  be 
afraid  of  her.  He  saw  a  strength  within  her  that  was  resistless. 
He  saw  that  she  was  desperate,  and  that  her  unquenchable 
hatred  of  him  would  stop  at  nothing.  His  eyes  followed  the 
hand  that  was  put  with  such  rugged,  uncongenial  purpose 
into  her  white  bosom,  and  he  thought  that  if  it  struck  at 
him  and  failed,  it  would  strike  there  just  as  soon. 

He  did  not  venture,  therefore,  to  advance  toward  her:  but 
the  door  by  which  he  had  entered  was  behind  him,  and  he 
stepped  back  to  lock  it. 

"  Lastly,  take  my  warning  !  Look  to  yourself  !  "  she 
said,  and  smiled  again.  "  You  have  been  betrayed,  as  all 
betrayers  are.  It  has  been  m.ade  known  that  you  are  in  this 
place,  or  were  to  be,  or  have  been.  If  I  live,  I  saw  my  hus- 
band in  a  carriage  in  the  street  to-night !  " 
"  Strumpet,  it's  false  !  " 
At  the  m^oment  the   bell  rang  ^oudly  in  the  hall.    He 


^6o  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

turned  white,  as  she  held  her  hand  up  like  an  enchantress, 
at  whose  invocation  the  sound  had  come. 

"  Hark  !  do  you  hear  it  ? " 

He  set  his  back  against  the  door;  for  he  saw  a  change  in  her, 
and  fancied  she  was  coming  on  to  pass  him.  But  in  a 
moment  she  was  gone  through  the  opposite  doors  communi- 
cating with  the  bed-chamber,  and  they  shut  upon  her. 

Once  turned,  once  changed  in  her  inflexible,  unyielding 
look,  he  felt  that  he  could  cope  with  her.  He  thought  a 
sudden  terror,  occasioned  by  this  night  alarm,  had  subdued 
her  ;  not  less  readily,  for  her  overwrought  condition. 
Throwing  open  the  doors,  he  followed  almost  instantly. 

But  the  room  was  dark  ;  and  as  she  made  no  answer  to 
his  call,  he  was  fain  to  go  back  for  the  lamp.  He  held  it  up, 
and  looked  round  everywhere,  expecting  to  see  her  crouch- 
ing in  some  corner  ;  but  the  room  was  empty.  So,  into  the 
drawing-room  and  dining-room  he  went  in  succession,  with 
the  uncertain  steps  of  a  man  in  a  strange  place  ;  looking 
fearfully  about,  and  prying  behind  screens  and  couches  ; 
but  she  was  not  there.  No,  nor  in  the  hail,  which  was  so 
bare  that  he  could  see  that  at  a  glance. 

All  this  time  the  ringing  at  the  bell  was  constantly 
renewed,  and  those  without  were  beating  at  the  door.  He 
put  his  lamp  down  at  a  distance,  and,  going  near  it,  listened. 
There  were  several  voices  talking  together  ;  at  least  two  of 
them  in  English  ;  and  though  the  door  was  thick,  and  there 
was  great  confusion,  he  knew  one  of  these  too  well  to  doubt 
whose  voice  it  was. 

He  took  up  his  lamp  again,  and  came  back  quickly 
through  all  the  rooms,  stopping  as  he  quitted  each,  and 
looking  round  for  her,  with  the  light  raised  above  his  head. 
He  was  standing  thus  in  the  bed-chamber,  when  the  door 
leading  to  the  little  passage  in  the  wall  caught  his  eye.  He 
went  to  it,  and  found  it  fastened  on  the  other  side  ;  but  she 
had  dropped  a  veil  in  going  through,  and  shut  it  in  the 
door. 

All  this  time  the  people  on  the  stairs  were  ring- 
ing at  the  bell,  and  knocking  with  their  hands  and 
feet. 

He  was  not  a  coward  ;  but  these  sounds  ;  what  had  gone 
before  ;  the  strangeness  of  the  place,  which  had  confused 
him,  even  in  his  return  from  the  hall  ;  the  frustration  of  his 
schemes  (for,  strange  to  say,  he  would  have  been  much 
bolder  if  they  had  succeeded)  ;  the  unseasonable  time  ;  the 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  761 

recollection  of  having  no  one  near  to  whom  he  could  appeal 
for  any  friendly  office  !  above  all,  the  sudden  sense,  which 
made  even  his  heart  beat  like  lead,  that  the  man  whose  con- 
fidence he  had  outraged,  and  whom  he  had  so  treacherously 
deceived,  was  there  to  recognize  and  challenge  him  with  his 
mask  plucked  off  his  face,  struck  a  panic  through  him.  He 
tried  the  floor  in  which  the  veil  was  shut,  but  couldn't  force 
it.  He  opened  one  of  the  windows,  and  looked  down  through 
the  lattice  of  the  blind  into  the  court-yard  ;  but  it  was  a  high 
leap,  and  the  stones  were  pitiless. 

The  ringing  and  knocking  still  continuing — his  panic  too 
— he  went  back  to  the  door  in  the  bed-chamber,  and  with 
some  new  efforts,  each  more  stubborn  than  the  last,  wrenched 
it  open.  Seeing  the  little  staircase  not  far  off,  and  feeling 
the  night  air  coming  up,  he  stole  back  for  his  hat  and  coat, 
made  the  door  as  secure  after  him  as  he  could,  crept  down 
Jamp  in  hand,  extinguished  it  on  seeing  the  street,  and  hav- 
'^ng  put  it  in  a  corner,  went  out  where  the  stars  were  shining. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

ROB    THE    GRINDER    LOSES    HIS    PLACE. 

The  porter  at  the  iron  gate  which  shut  the  court-yard 
from  the  street  had  left  the  little  wicket  of  his  house  open, 
and  was  gone  away  ;  no  doubt  to  mingle  in  the  distant  noise 
at  the  door  of  the  great  staircase.  Lifting  the  latch  softly, 
Carker  crept  out,  and  shutting  the  jangling  gate  after  him 
with  as  little  noise  as  possible,  hurried  off. 

In  the  fever  of  his  mortification  and  unavailing  rage,  the 
panic  that  had  seized  upon  him  mastered  him  completely. 
It  rose  to  such  a  height  that  he  would  have  blindly  encount- 
ered almost  any  risk,  rather  than  meet  the  man  of  whom, 
two  hours  ago,  he  had  been  utterly  regardless.  His  fierce 
arrival,  which  he  had  never  expected  ;  the  sound  of  his 
voice  ;  their  having  been  so  near  a  meeting,  face  to  face,  he 
would  have  braved  out  this,  after  the  first  momentary  shock 
of  alarm,  and  would  have  put  as  bold  a  front  upon  his  guilt 
as  any  villain.  But  the  springing  of  his  mine  upon  himself 
seemed  to  have  rent  and  shivered  all  his  hardihood  and  self- 
reliance.  Spurned  like  any  reptile  ;  entrapped  and  mocked; 
turned  upon,  and  trodden  down  by  the  proud  woman  whose 
mind  he  had  slowly  poisoned,  as  he  thought,  until  she  had 


762  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

sunk  into  the  mere  creature  of  his  pleasure  ;  undeceived  in 
his  deceit,  and  with  his  fox's  hide  stripped  off,  he  sneaked 
away,  abashed,  degraded,  and  afraid. 

Some  other  terror  came  upon  him  quite  removed  from  this 
of  being  pursued,  suddenly,  like  an  electric  shock,  as  he  was 
creeping  through  the  streets.  Some  visionary  terror,  unin- 
telligible and  inexplicable,  associated  with  a  trembling  of  the 
ground — a  rush  and  sweep  of  something  through  the  air,  like 
death  upon  the  wing.  He  shrunk,  as  if  to  let  the  thing  go 
by.  It  was  not  gone,  it  never  had  been  there,  yet  what  a 
startling  horror  it  had  left  behind. 

He  raised  his  wicked  face,  so  full  of  trouble,  to  the  night 
sky,  where  the  stars,  so  full  of  peace,  were  shining  on  him  as 
they  had  been  when  he  first  stole  out  into  the  air,  and  stopped 
to  think  what  he  should  do.  The  dread  of  being  hunted  in 
a  strange,  remote  place,  where  the  laws  might  not  protect 
him — the  novelty  of  the  feeling  that  it  was  strange  and 
remote,  originating  in  his  being  left  alone  so  suddenly  amidst 
the  ruins  of  his  plans — his  greater  dread  of  seeking  refuge 
now,  in  Italy  or  Sicily,  where  men  might  be  hired  to  assas- 
sinate him,  he  thought,  at  any  dark  street- corner — the  way- 
wardness of  guilt  and  fear — perhaps  some  sympathy  of  action 
with  the  turning  back  of  all  his  schemes — impelled  him  to 
turn  back  too,  and  go  to  England. 

*'  I  am  safer  there,  in  any  case.  If  I  should  not  decide," 
he  thought,  "to  give  this  fool  a  meeting,  I  am  less  likely  to 
be  traced  there  than  abroad  here,  now.  And  if  I  should 
(this  cursed  fit  being  over),  at  least  I  shall  not  be  alone, 
without  a  soul  to  speak  to,  or  advise  with,  or  stand  by  me. 
I  shall  not  be  run  in  upon  and  worried  like  a  rat." 

He  muttered  Edith's  name,  and  clenched  his  hand.  As 
he  crept  along,  in  the  shadow  of  the  massive  buildings,  he 
set  his  teeth,  and  muttered  dreadful  imprecations  on  her 
head,  and  looked  from  side  to  side  as  if  in  search  of  her. 
Thus  he  stole  on  to  the  gate  of  an  inn-yard.  The  people 
were  abed  ;  but  his  ringing  at  the  bell  soon  produced  a  man 
with  a  lantern,  in  company  with  whom  he  was  presently  in  a 
dim  coach-house  bargaining  for  the  hire  of  an  old  phaeton 
to  Paris. 

The  bargain  was  a  short  one,  and  the  horses  were  soon 
sent  for.  Leaving  word  that  the  carriage  was  to  follow  him 
when  they  came,  he  stole  away  again  beyond  the  town,  past 
the  old  ramparts,  out  on  the  open  road,  which  seemed  to 
glide  away  along  the  dark  plain  like  a  stream. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  763 

Whither  did  it  flow?  What  was  the  end  of  it?  As  he 
paused,  with  some  such  suggestion  within  him,  looking  over 
the  gloomy  flat  where  the  slender  trees  marked  out  the  way, 
again  the  flight  of  death  came  rushing  up,  again  went  on, 
impetuous  and  resistless,  again  was  nothing  but  a  horror  in 
his  mind,  dark  as  the  scene  and  undefined  as  its  remotest 
verge. 

There  was  no  wind  ;  there  was  no  passing  shadow  on  the 
de^p  shade  of  the  night  ;  there  was  no  noise.  The  city  lay 
behind  him,  lighted  here  and  there,  and  starry  worlds  were 
hidden  by  the  masonry  of  spire  and  roof  that  hardly  made 
out  any  shapes  against  the  sky.  Dark  and  lonely  distance 
lay  around  him  everywhere,  and  the  clocks  were  faintly  strik- 
ing two. 

He  went  forward  for  what  appeared  a  long  time,  and  a  long 
way  ;  often  stopping  to  listen.  At  last  the  ringing  of  horses' 
bells  greeted  his  anxious  ears.  Now  softer,  and  now  louder, 
now  inaudible,  now  ringing  very  slowly  over  bad  ground, 
now  brisk  and  merry,  it  came  on  ;  until  with  a  loud  shouting 
and  lashing  a  shadowy  postilion,  muffled  to  the  eyes,  checked 
his  four  struggling  horses  at  his  side. 

''  Who  goes  there  !     Monsieur  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Monsieur  has  walked  a  long  way  in  the  dark  midnight." 

*'  No  matter.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  Were  there  any 
other  horses  ordered  at  the  post-house  ?  " 

**  A  thousand  devils  ! — and  pardons  !  other  horses  ?  at 
this  hour  ?     No." 

''  Listen,  my  friend.  I  am  much  hurried.  Let  us  see  how 
fast  we  can  travel !  The  faster,  the  more  money  there  will 
be  to  drink.     Off  we  go  then  !     Quick  !  " 

'^  Halloo  !  whoop  !  Halloo  !  Hi  !  "  Away,  at  a  gallop 
over  the  black  landscape,  scattering  the  dust  and  dirt  like 
spray  ! 

The  clatter  and  commotion  echoed  to  the  hurry  and  dis- 
cordance of  the  fugitive's  ideas.  Nothing  clear  without,  and 
nothing  clear  within.  Objects  flitting  past,  merging  into 
one  another,  dimly  descried,  confusedly  lost  sight  of,  gone  ! 
Beyond  the  changing  scraps  of  fence  and  cottage  imme- 
diately upon  the  road  a  lowering  waste.  Beyond  the  shifting 
images  that  rose  up  in  his  mind  and  vanished  as  they  showed 
themselves,  a  black  expanse  of  dread  and  rage  and  baffled 
villainy.  Occasionally  a  sigh  of  mountain  air  came  from 
the  distant  Jura,  fading  along  the    plain.     Sometimes  that 


764  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

rush,  which  was  so  furious  and  horrible,  again  came  sweep- 
ing through  his  fancy,  passed  away,  and  left  a  chill  upon  his 
blood. 

The  lamps,  gleaming  on  the  medley  of  horses'  heads 
jumbled  with  the  shadowy  driver,  and  the  fluttering  of  his 
cloak  made  a  thousand  indistinct  shapes,  answering  to  his 
thoughts.  Shadows  of  familiar  people,  stooping  at  their 
desks  and  books,  in  their  remembered  attitudes  ;  strange 
apparitions  of  the  man  whom  he  was  flying  from,  or  of 
Edith  ;  repetitions  in  the  ringing  bells  and  rolling  wheels,  of 
words  that  had  been  spoken  ;  confusions  of  time  and  place, 
making  last  night  a  month  ago,  a  month  ago  last  night — 
home  now  distant  beyond  hope,  now  instantly  accessible  ; 
commotion,  discord,  hurry,  darkness,  and  confusion  in  his 
mind,  and  all  around  him. — Halloo  !  Hi  !  Away  at  a 
gallop  over  the  black  landscape  ;  dust  and  dirt  flying  like 
spray,  and  smoking  horses  snorting  and  plunging  as  if  each 
of  them  were  ridden  by  a  demon,  away  in  a  frantic  triumph 
on  the  dark  road — whither  ! 

Again  the  nameless  shock  comes  speeding  up,  and  as  it 
passes,  the  bells  ring  in  his  ears  "  Whither  ?  "  The  wheels 
roar  in  his  ears,  "  Whither  ?  "  all  the  noise  and  rattle  shapes 
itself  into  that  cry.  The  lights  and  shadows  dance  upon  the 
horses'  heads  like  imps.  No  stopping  now  ;  no  slackening  ! 
On,  on  !     Away  with  him  upon  the  dark  road  wildly  ! 

He  could  not  think  to  any  purpose.  He  could  not  sep- 
arate one  subject  of  reflection  from  another  sufficiently  to 
dwell  upon  it,  by  itself,  for  a  minute  at  a  time.  The  crash 
of  his  project  for  the  gaining  of  a  voluptuous  compensation 
for  past  restraint ;  the  overthrow  of  his  treachery  to  one 
who  had  been  true  and  generous  to  him,  but  whose  least 
proud  word  and  look  he  had  treasured  up,  at  interest,  for  years 
— for  false  and  subtle  men  will  always  secretly  despise  and 
dislike  the  object  upon  which  they  fawn,  and  always  resent 
the  payment  and  receipt  of  homage  that  they  know  to  be 
worthless  ;  these  were  the  themes  uppermost  in  his  mind. 
A  lurking  rage  against  the  woman  who  had  so  entrapped 
him  and  avenged  herself  was  always  there  ;  crude  and  mis- 
shapen schemes  of  retaliation  upon  her  floated  in  his  brain  ; 
but  nothing  was  distinct.  A  hurry  and  contradiction  per- 
vaded all  his  thoughts.  Even  while  he  was  so  busy  with 
^his  fevered,  ineffectual  thinking,  his  one  constant  idea  was, 
that  he  would  postpone  reflection  until  some  indefinite 
time. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7^5 

Then  the  old  days  before  the  second  marriage  rose  up  in 
his  remembrance.  He  thought  how  jealous  he  had  been  of 
the  boy,  how  jealous  he  had  been  of  the  girl,  how  artfully 
he  had  kept  intruders  at  a  distance,  and  drawn  a  circle  round 
his  dupe  that  none  but  himself  should  cross  ;  and  then  he 
thought,  had  he  done  all  this  to  be  flying  now,  like  a  scared 
thief,  from  only  the  poor  dupe  ? 

He  could  have  laid  hands  upon  himself  for  his  cowardice, 
but  it  was  the  very  shadow  of  his  defeat,  and  could  not  be 
separated  from  it.  To  have  his  confidence  in  his  own  knav- 
ery so  shattered  at  a  blow — to  be  within  his  own  knowledge 
such  a  miserable  tool — was  like  being  paralyzed.  With  an 
impotent  ferocity  he  raged  at  Edith,  and  hated  Mr.  Dom- 
bey,  and  hated  himself,  but  still  he  fled,  and  could  do  noth- 
ing else. 

Again  and  again  he  listened  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
behind.  Again  and  again  his  fancy  heard  it,  coming  on 
louder  and  louder.  At  last  he  was  so  persuaded  of  this,  that 
he  cried  out,  "  Stop  !  "  preferring  even  the  loss  of  ground  to 
such  uncertainty. 

The  word  soon  brought  carriage,  horses,  driver  all  in  a 
heap  together,  across  the  road. 

"  The  devil  !  "  cried  the  driver,  looking  over  his  shoulder, 
"what's  the  matter?" 

"  Hark  !     What's  that  ? " 

"What?" 

"That  noise." 

"  Ah,  heaven,  be  quiet,  cursed  brigand  !  "  to  a  horse  who 
shook  his  bells.     "  What  noise  ?  " 

"  Behind.  Is  it  not  another  carriage  at  a  gallop  ?  There  ! 
What's  that?" 

"  Miscreant  with'  a  pig's  head,  stand  still  !  to  another 
horse,  who  bit  another,  who  frightened  the  other  two,  who 
plunged  and  backed.     "  There  is  nothing  coming." 

"  Nothing  ? " 

"No,  nothing  but  the  day  yonder." 

"You  are  right,  I  think.  I  hear  nothing  now,  indeed. 
Go  on  !  " 

The  entangled  equipage,  half  hidden  in  the  reeking  cloud 
from  the  horses,  goes  on  slowly  at  first,  for  the  driver, 
checked  unnecessarily  in  his  progress,  sulkily  takes  out  a 
pocket  knife,  and  puts  a  new  lash  to  his  whip.  Then  "  Hal- 
loo, whoop  !     Halloo,  hi  !  "     Away  once  more,  savagely. 

And  now  the  stars  faded,  and  the  day  glimmered,  and 


766  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

standing  in  the  carriage,  looking  back,  he  could  discern  the 
track  by  which  he  had  come,  and  see  that  there  was  no  trav- 
eler within  view  on  all  the  heavy  expanse.  And  soon  it  was 
broad  day,  and  the  sun  began  to  shine  on  cornfields  and 
vineyards  ;  and  solitary  laborers,  risen  from  little  temporary 
huts  by  heaps  of  stones  upon  the  road,  were,  here  and  there, 
at  work  repairing  the  highway,  or  eating  bread.  By-and-by 
there  were  peasants  going  to  their  daily  labor,  or  to  market,  or 
lounging  at  the  doors  of  poor  cottages,  gazing  idly  at  him  as  he 
passed.  And  then  there  was  a  post-yard,  ankle-deep  in  mud, 
with  steaming  dunghills,  and  vast  outhouses  half  ruined  ;  and 
looking  on  this  dainty  prospect,  an  immense,  old,  shadeless, 
glaring,  stone  chateau,  with  half  its  windows  blinded,  and 
green  damp  crawling  lazily  over  it,  from  the  balustraded 
terrace  to  the  taper-tips  of  the  extinguishers  upon  the  tur- 
rets. 

Gathered  up  moodily  in  the  corner  of  the  carriage,  and 
only  intent  on  going  fast — except  when  he  stood  up,  for  a 
mile  together,  and  looked  back  ;  which  he  would  do  when- 
ever there  was  a  piece  of  open  country — he  went  on,  still 
postponing  thought  indefinitely,  and  still  always  tormented 
with  thinking  to  no  purpose. 

Shame,  disappointment,  and  discomfiture  gnawed  at  his 
heart;  a  constant  apprehension  of  being  overtaken  or  met 
— for  he  was  groundlessly  afraid  even  of  travelers  who  came 
toward  him  by  the  way  he  was  going — oppressed  him  heav- 
ily. The  same  intolerable  aM^e  and  dread  that  had  come 
upon  him  in  the  night,  returned  unweakened  in  the  day. 
The  monotonous  ringing  of  the  bells  and  trampling  of  the 
horses  ;  the  monotony  of  his  anxiety  and  useless  rage  ;  the 
monotonous  wheel  of  fear,  regret,  and  passion,  he  kept  turn- 
ing round  and  round  ;  made  the  journey  like  a  vision;  in 
which  nothing  was  quite  real  but  his  own  torment. 

It  was  a  vision  of  long  roads  ;  that  stretched  away  to  a 
horizon,  always  receding  and  never  gained  ;  of  ill-paved 
towns,  up  hill  and  down,  where  faces  came  to  dark  doors 
and  ill-glazed  windows,  and  where  rows  of  mud-bespattered 
cows  and  oxen  were  tied  up  for  sale  in  the  long  narrow 
streets,  butting  and  lowing,  and  receiving  blows  on  their 
blunt  heads  from  bludgeons  that  might  have  beaten  them  in; 
of  bridges,  crosses,  churches,  post-yards,  new  horses  being 
put  in  against  their  wills,  and  the  horses  of  the  last  stage 
reeking,  panting,  and  laying  their  drooping  heads  together 
dolefully   at  stable-doors  ;  of   little  cemeteries  with  black 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  767 

crosses  settled  sideways  in  the  graves,  and  withered  wreaths 
upon  them  dropping  away  ;  again  of  long,  long  roads,  drag- 
ging themselves  out,  up  hill  and  down,  to  the  treacherous 
horizon. 

Of  morning,  noon,  and  sunset  ;  night,  and  the  rising  of  an 
early  moon.  Of  long  roads  temporarily  left  behind,  and  a 
rough  pavement  reached  ;  of  battering  and  clattering  over 
it,  and  looking  up  among  house-roofs  at  a  great  church- 
tower  ;  of  getting  out  and  eating  hastily,  and  drinking 
draughts  of  wine  that  had  no  cheering  influence  ;  of  coming 
forth  afoot,  among  a  host  of  beggars — blind  men  with  quiv- 
ering eyelids,  led  by  old  women  holding  candles  to  their  faces; 
idiot  girls;  the  lame,  the  epileptic,  and  the  palsied — of  pass- 
ing through  the  clamor,  and  looking  from  his  seat  at  the  up- 
turned countenances  and  outstretched  hands,  with  a  hurried 
dread  of  recognizing  some  pursuer  pressing  forward — of 
galloping  away  again  upon  the  long,  long  road,  gathered  up, 
dull  and  stunned,  in  his  corner,  or  rising  to  see  where  the 
moon  shone  faintly  on  a  patch  of  the  same  endless  road 
miles  avv^ay,  or  looking  back  to  see  who  followed. 

Of  never  sleeping,  but  sometimes  dozing  with  unclosed 
eyes,  and  springing  up  with  a  start,  and  a  reply  aloud  to  an 
imaginary  voice.  Of  cursing  himself  for  being  there,  for 
having  fled,  for  having  let  her  go,  for  not  having  confronted 
and  defied  him.  Of  having  a  deadly  quarrel  with  the  whole 
world,  but  chiefly  with  himself.  Of  blighting  every  thing 
with  his  black  mood,  as  he  was  carried  on  and  away. 

It  was  a  fevered  vision  of  things  past  and  present  all  con- 
founded together  ;  of  his  life  and  journey  blended  into  one. 
Of  being  madly  hurried  somewhere,  whither  he  must  go. 
Of  old  scenes  starting  up  among  the  novelties  through  which 
he  traveled.  Of  musing  and  brooding  over  what  was  past  and 
distant,  and  seeming  to  take  no  notice  of  the  actual  objects  he 
encountered,  but  with  a  wearisome,  exhausting  consciousness 
of  being  bewildered  by  them,  and  having  their  images  all 
crowded  in  his  hot  brain  after  they  were  gone. 

A  vision  of  change  upon  change,  and  still  the  same  monot- 
ony of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of 
town  and  country,  post-yards,  horses,  drivers,  hill  and 
valley,  light  and  darkness,  road  and  pavement,  height  and 
hollow,  wet  weather  and  dry,  and  still  the  same  monotony  of 
bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  A  vision  of 
tending  on  at  last,  toward  the  distant  capital,  by  busier  roads, 
and  sweeping  round  by  old  cathedrals,  and  dashing  through 


768  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

small  towns  and  villages,  less  thinly  scattered  on  the  road 
than  formerly,  and  sitting  shrouded  in  his  corner,  with  his 
cloak  up  to  his  face,  as  people  passing  by  looked  at  him. 

Of  rolling  on  and  on,  always  postponing  thought,  and 
always  racked  with  thinking  ;  of  being  unable  to  reckon  up 
the  hours  he  had  been  upon  the  road,  or  to  comprehend 
the  points  of  time  and  place  in  his  journey.  Of  being 
parched  and  giddy,  and  half  mad.  Of  pressing  on  in  spite 
of  all,  as  if  he  could  not  stop,  and  coming  into  Paris,  where 
the  turbid  river  held  its  swift  course  undisturbed,  between 
two  brawling  streams  of  life  and  motion. 

A  troubled  vision,  then,  of  bridges,  quays,  interminable 
streets  ;  of  wine-shops,  water-carriers,  great  crowds  of  peo- 
ple, soldiers,  coaches,  military  drums,  arcades.  Of  the 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses'  feet  being  at  length 
lost  in  the  universal  din  and  uproar.  Of  the  gradual  subsi- 
dence of  that  noise  as  he  passed  out  in  another  carriage  by  a 
different  barrier  from  that  by  which  he  had  entered.  Of  the 
restoration,  as  he  traveled  on  toward  the  sea-coast,  of  the 
monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and  horses'  feet  and  no 
rest. 

Of  sunset  once  again,  and  night-fall.  Of  long  roads  again 
and  dead  of  night,  and  feeble  lights  in  windows  by  the  road- 
side ;  and  still  the  old  monotony  of  bells  and  wheels,  and 
horses'  feet,  and  no  rest.  Of  dawn,  and  day-break,  and  the 
rising  of  the  sun.  Of  toiling  slowly  up  a  hill,  and  feeling  on 
its  top  the  fresh  sea-breeze  ;  and  seeing  the  morning  light 
upon  the  edges  of  the  distant  waves.  Of  coming  down  ihto 
a  harbor  when  the  tide  was  at  its  full,  and  seeing  fishitig- 
boats  float  in,  and  glad  women  and  children  waiting  for  them. 
Of  nets  and  seamen's  clothes  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the 
shore  ;  of  busy  sailors,  and  their  voices  high  among  ships' 
masts  and  riggings  ;  of  the  buoyancy  and  brightness  of  the 
water,  and  the  universal  sparkling. 

Of  receding  from  the  coast,  and  looking  back  upon  it  from 
the  deck  when  it  was  a  haze  upon  the  water,  with  here  and 
there  a  little  opening  of  bright  land  where  the  sun  struck. 
Of  the  swell,  and  flash,  and  murmur  of  the  calm  sea.  Of 
another  gray  line  on  the  ocean,  on  the  vessel's  track,  fast 
growing  clearer  and  higher.  Of  cliffs  and  buildings,  and  a 
windmill,  and  a  church  becoming  more  and  more  visible 
upon  it.  Of  steaming  on  at  last  into  smooth  water,  and 
mooring  to  pier  whence  groups  of  people  looked  down,  greet- 
ing friends  on  board.     Of  disembarking,  passing  among  them 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  769 

quickly,  shunning  every  one  ;  and  of  being  at  last  again  in 
England. 

He  had  thought,  in  his  dream,  of  going  down  into  a  remote 
country-place  he  knew,  and  lying  quiet  there,  while  he 
secretly  informed  himself  of  what  transpired,  and  deter- 
mined how  to  act.  Still  in  the  same  stunned  condition,  he 
remembered  a  certain  station  on  the  railway,  where  he  would 
have  to  branch  off  to  his  place  of  destination,  and  where 
there  was  a  quiet  inn.  Here  he  indistinctly  resolved  to 
tarry  and  rest. 

With  this  purpose  he  slunk  into  a  railway-carriage  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  and  lying  there  wrapped  in  his  cloak  as 
if  he  were  asleep,  was  soon  borne  far  away  from  the  sea,  and 
deep  into  the  inland  green.  Arrived  at  his  destination,  he 
looked  out,  and  surveyed  it  carefully.  He  was  not  mistaken 
in  his  impression  of  the  place.  It  was  a  retired  spot,  on  the 
borders  of  a  little  wood.  Only  one  house,  newly-built  or 
altered  for  the  purpose,  stood  there,  surrounded  by  its  neat 
garden  ;  the  small  town  that  was  nearest  was  some  miles 
away.  Here  he  alighted  then  ;  and  going  straight  into  the 
tavern,  unobserved  by  any  one,  secured  two  rooms  up-stairs 
communicating  with  each  other,  and  sufficiently  retired. 

His  object  was  to  rest,  and  to  recover  the  command  of 
himself  and  the  balance  of  his  mind.  Imbecile  discomfiture 
and  rage — so  that,  as  he  walked  about  his  room,  he  ground 
his  teeth — had  complete  possession  of  him.  His  thoughts, 
not  to  be  stopped  or  directed,  still  wandered  where  they 
would,  and  dragged  him  after  them.  He  was  stupefied,  and 
he  was  wearied  to  death. 

But  as  if  there  were  a  curse  upon  him  that  he  should  never 
rest  again,  his  drowsy  senses  would  not  lose  their  conscious- 
ness. He  had  no  more  influence  with  them  in  this  regard, 
than  if  they  had  been  another  man's.  It  was  not  that  they 
forced  him  to  take  note  of  present  sounds  and  objects,  but 
that  they  would  not  be  diverted  from  the  whole  hurried 
vision  of  his  journey.  It  was  constantly  before  him  all  at 
once.  She  stood  there,  with  her  dark,  disdainful  eyes  again 
upon  him  ;  and  he  was  riding  on  nevertheless,  through  town 
and  country,  light  and  darkness,  wet  weather  and  dry,  over 
road  and  pavement,  hill  and  valley,  height  and  hollow,  jaded 
and  scared  by  the  monotony  of  bells,  and  wheels,  and 
horses'  feet,  and  no  rest. 

"  What  day  is  this  ? "  he  asked  of  the  waiter,  whc  was 
making  preparations  for  his  dinner. 


770  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

"Day,  sir?" 

"  Is  it  Wednesday  ?  " 

"Wednesday,  sir  ?     No,  sir.     Thursday,  sir." 

"  I  forgot.     How  goes  the  time  ?  My  watch  is  unwound." 

"  Wants  a  few  minutes  of  five  o'clock,  sir.  Been  traveling 
a  long  time,  sir,  perhaps  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  By  rail,  sir  ? " 

"Yes." 

"  Very  confusing,  sir.  Not  much  in  the  habit  of  traveling 
by  rail,  myself,  sir,  but  gentlemen  frequently  say  so." 

"  Do  many  gentlemen  come  here  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well,  sir,  in  general.  Nobody  here  at  present. 
Rather  slack  just  now,  sir.     Every  thing  is  slack,  sir." 

He  made  no  answer  ;  but  had  risen  into  a  sitting  posture 
on  the  sofa  where  he  had  been  lying,  and  leaned  forward 
with  an  arm  on  each  knee,  staring  at  the  ground.  He  could 
not  master  his  own  attention  for  a  minate  together.  It 
rushed  away  where  it  would,  but  it  never,  for  an  instant,  lost 
itself  in  sleep. 

He  drank  a  quantity  of  wine  after  dinner  in  vain.  No 
such  artificial  means  would  bring  sleep  to  his  eyes.  His 
thoughts,  more  incoherent,  dragged  him  more  unmercifully 
after  them — as  if  a  wretch,  condemned  to  such  expiation, 
were  drawn  at  the  heels  of  wild  horses.  No  oblivion,  and 
no  rest. 

How  long  he  sat,  drinking  and  brooding,  and  being  dragged 
in  imagination  hither  and  thither,  no  one  could  have  told 
less  correctly  than  he.  But  he  knew  that  he  had  been  sit- 
ting a  long  time  by  candle-light,  when  he  started  up  and  list- 
ened, in  a  sudden  terror. 

For  now,  indeed,  it  was  no  fancy.  The  ground  shook,  the 
house  rattled,  the  fierce  impetuous  rush  was  in  the  air  !  He 
felt  it  come  up,  and  go  darting  by  ;  and  even  when  he  had 
hurried  to  the  window,  and  saw  what  it  was,  he  stood  shrink- 
ing from  it,  as  if  it  were  not  safe  to  look. 

A  curse  upon  the  fiery  devil,  thundering  along  so  smoothly, 
tracked  through  the  distant  valley  by  a  glare  of  light  and 
lurid  smoke,  and  gone  !  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  plucked 
out  of  its  path,  and  saved  from  being  torn  asunder.  It 
made  him  shrink  and  shudder  even  now,  when  its  faintest 
hum  was  hushed,  and  when  the  lines  of  iron  road  he  could 
trace  in  the  moonlight,  running  to  a  point,  were  as  empty 
and  as  silent  as  a  desert. 


DOMBEV    AND   SON.  771 

Unable  to  rest,  and  irresistibly  attracted — or  he  thought 
so — to  this  road,  he  went  out  and  lounged  on  the  brink  of  it, 
marking  the  way  the  train  had  gone  by  the  yet  smoking  cin- 
ders that  were  lying  in  its  track.  After  a  lounge  of  some 
half-hour  in  the  direction  by  which  it  had  disappeared,  he 
turned  and  walked  the  other  way — still  keeping  to  the  brink 
of  the  road — past  the  inn  garden,  and  a  long  way  down  ; 
looking  curiously  at  the  bridges,  signals,  lamps,  and  wonder- 
ing when  another  devil  would  come  by. 

A  trembling  of  the  ground,  and  quick  vibration  in  his 
ears  ;  a  distant  shriek  ;  a  dull  light  advancing,  quickly 
changed  to  two  red-eyes,  and  a  fierce  fire,  dropping  glowing 
coals  ;  an  irresistible  bearing  on  of  a  great  roaring  and  dilat- 
ing mass  ;  a*  high  wind,  and  a  rattle — another  come  and 
gone,  and  he  holding  to  a  gate,  as  if  to  save  himself  ! 

He  waited  for  another  and  for  another.  He  walked  back 
to  his  former  point,  and  back  again  to  that,  and  still,  through 
the  wearisome  vision  of  his  journey,  looked  for  these 
approaching  monsters.  He  loitered  about  the  station,  wait- 
ing until  one  should  stay  to  call  there  ;  and  when  one  did, 
and  was  detached  for  water,  he  stood  parallel  with  it,  watch- 
ing its  heavy  wheels  and  brazen  front,  and  thinking  what  a 
cruel  power  and  might  it  had.  Ugh  !  To  see  the  great 
wheels  slowly  turning,  and  to  think  of  being  run  down  and 
crushed  ! 

Disordered  with  wine  and  want  of  rest — that  want  which 
nothing,  although  he  was  so  weary,  would  appease — these 
ideas  and  objects  assumed  a  diseased  importance  in  his 
thoughts.  When  he  went  back  to  his  room,  which  was  not 
until  near  midnight,  they  still  haunted  him,  and  he  sat  list- 
ening for  the  coming  of  another. 

So  in  his  bed,  whither  he  repaired  with  no  hope  of  sleep. 
He  still  lay  listening  ;  and  when  he  felt  the  trembling  and 
vibration,  got  up  and  went  to  the  window,  to  watch  (as  he 
could  from  its  position)  the  dull  light  changing  to  the  two 
red  eyes,  and  the  fierce  fire  dropping  glowing  coals,  and  the 
rush  of  the  giant  as  it  fled  past,  and  the  track  of  glare  and 
smoke  along  the  valley.  Then  he  would  glance  in  the 
direction  by  which  he  intended  to  depart  at  sun-rise,  as  there 
was  no  rest  for  him  there  ;  and  would  lie  down  again,  to  be 
troubled  by  the  vision  of  his  journey,  and  the  old  monotony 
of  bells  and  wheels  and  horses'  feet,  until  another  came. 
This  lasted  all  night.  So  far  from  resuming  the  mastery  of 
himself,  he  seemed,  if  possible,  to  lose  it  more  and  more,  as 


772  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

the  night  crept  on.  When  the  dawn  appeared,  he  was  still 
tormented  with  thinking,  still  postponing  thought  until  he 
should  be  in  a  better  state  ;  the  past,  present,  and  future, 
all  floated  confusedly  before  him,  and  he  had  lost  all  power 
of  looking  steadily  at  any  one  of  them. 

"  At  what  time,"  he  asked  the  man  who  had  waited  on  him 
over  night,  now  catering  with  a  candle,  "  do  I  leave  here,  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  About  a  quarter  after  four,  sir.  Express  comes  through 
at  four,  sir.     It  don't  stop." 

He  passed  his  hand  across  his  throbbing  head,  and  looked 
at  his  watch.     Nearly  half-past  three. 

*'  Nobody  going  with  you,  sir,  probably,"  observed  the 
man.  "  Two  gentlemen  here,  sir,  but  they're  waiting  for  the 
train  to  London." 

*'  I  thought  you  said  there  was  nobody  here,"  said  Carker, 
turning  upon  him  with  the  ghost  of  his  old  smile,  when  he 
was  angry  or  suspicious. 

"  Not  then,  sir.  Two  gentlemen  came  in  the  night  by  the 
short  train  that  stops  here,  sir.     Warm  water,  sir  ?  " 

"  No  ;  and  take  away  the  candle.  There's  day  enough 
for  me." 

Having  thrown  himself  upon  the  bed  half-dressed,  he  was 
at  the  window  as  the  man  left  the  room.  The  cold  light  of 
morning  had  succeeded  to  night,  and  there  was  already  in 
the  sky  the  red  suffusion  of  the  coming  sun.  He  bathed 
his  head  and  face  with  water — there  was,  no  cooling 
influence  in  it  for  him — hurriedly  put  on  his  clothes,  paid 
what  he  owed,  and  went  out. 

The  air  struck  chill  and  comfortless  as  it  breathed  upon 
him.  There  was  a  heavy  dew  ;  and,  hot  as  he  was,  it  made 
him  shiver.  After  a  glance  at  the  place  where  he  had 
walked  last  night,  and  at  the  signal-lights  burning  feebly  in 
the  morning,  and  bereft  of  their  significance,  he  turned  to 
where  the  sun  was  rising,  and  beheld  it  in  its  glory,  as  it 
broke  upon  the  scene. 

So  awful,  so  transcendent  in  its  beauty,  so  divinely  solemn. 
As  he  cast  his  faded  eyes  upon  it,  where  it  rose,  tranquil 
and  serene,  unmoved  by  all  the  wrong  and  wickedness  on 
which  its  beams  had  shone  since  the  beginning  of  the  world, 
who  shall  say  that  some  weak  sense  of  virtue  upon  earth, 
and  its  reward  in  heaven,  did  not  manifest  itself  even  to 
him  !  If  ever  he  remembered  sister  or  brother  with  a  touch 
of  tenderness  and  remorse,  who  shall  say  it  was  not  then  ? 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  773 

He  needed  some  such  touch  then.  Death  was  on  him. 
He  was  marked  off  from  the  living  world,  and  going  down 
into  his  grave. 

He  paid  the  money  for  his  journey  to  the  country-place 
he  had  thought  of  ;  and  was  walking  to  and  fro,  alone,  look- 
ing along  the  lines  of  iron,  across  the  valley  in  one  direc- 
tion, and  toward  a  dark  bridge  near  at  hand  in  the  other  ; 
when,  turning  in  his  walk,  where  it  was  bounded  by  one  end 
of  the  wooden  stage  on  which  he  paced  up  and  down,  he  saw 
the  man  from  whom  he  had  fled  emerging  from  the  door 
by  which  he  himself  had  entered  there.  And  their  eyes 
met. 

In  the  quick  unsteadiness  of  the  surprise,  he  staggered, 
and  slipped  on  the  road  below  him.  But  recovering  his  feet 
immediately,  he  stepped  back  a  pace  or  two  upon  that  road, 
to  interpose  some  wider  space  between  them,  and  looked  at 
his  pursuer,  breathing  short  and  quick. 

He  heard  a  shout — another — saw  the  face  change  from  its 
vindictive  passion  to  a  faint  sickness  and  terror — felt  the 
earth  tremble — knew  in  a  moment  that  the  rush  was  come — 
uttered  a  shriek — looked  round — saw  the  red  eyes,  bleared 
and  dim,  in  the  daylight,  close  upon  him — was  beaten  down, 
caught  up,  and  whirled  away  upon  a  jagged  mill,  that  spun 
him  round  and  round,  and  struck  him  limb  from  limb,  and 
licked  his  stream  of  life  up  with  its  fiery  heat,  and  cast  his 
mutilated  fragments  in  the  air. 

When  the  traveler,  who  had  been  recognized,  recovered 
from  a  swoon,  he  saw  them  bringing  from  a  distance  some- 
thing covered,  that  lay  heavy  and  still,  upon  a  board, 
between  four  men,  and  saw  that  others  drove  some  dogs 
away  that  sniffed  upon  the  road,  and  soaked  his  blood 
up  wdth  a  train  of  ashes. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

SEVERAL  PEOPLE  DELIGHTED,  AND  THE    GAME-CHICKEN    DIS- 
GUSTED. 

The  midshipman  was  all  alive.  Mr.  Toots  and  Susan  had 
arrived  at  last.  Susan  had  run  up-stairs  like  a  young  w^oman 
bereft  of  her  senses,  and  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  had 
gone  into  the  parlor. 

"  Oh,  my  own  pretty  darling  sweet  Miss  Floy  !  "  cried  the 


774  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Nipper,  running  into  Florence's  room,  "  to  think  that  it  should 
come  to  this  and  I  should  find  you  here  my  own  dear  dove 
with  nobody  to  wait  upon  you  and  no  home  to  call  your  own 
but  never  never  will  I  go  away  again  Miss  Floy  for  though  I 
may  not  gather  moss  I'm  not  a  rolling  stone  nor  is  my  heart 
a  stone  or  else  it  wouldn't  bust  as  it  is  busting  now  oh  dear 
oh  dear !  " 

Pouring  out  these  words  without  the  faintest  indication  of 
a  stop  of  any  sort,  Miss  Nipper,  on  her  knees  beside  her 
mistress,  hugged  her  close. 

''  Oh  love  !  "  cried  Susan,  "  I  know  all  that's  past  I  know  it 
all  my  tender  pet  and  I'm  a-choking  give  me  air  !  " 

"  Susan,  dear  good  Susan  !  "  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  bless  her  !  I  that  was  her  little  maid  when  she  was 
a  little  child  !  and  is  she  really,  really  truly  going  to  be  mar- 
ried !  "  exclai^.ed  Susan,  in  a  burst  of  pain  and  pleasure, 
pride  and  grief,  and  heaven  knows  how  many  other  conflict- 
ing feelings. 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?  "  said  Florence. 

"  Oh  gracious  me  !  that  innocentest  creetur  Toots,"  re- 
turned Susan,  hysterically.  "  I  knew  he  must  be  right  my 
dear  because  he  took  on  so.  He's  the  devotedest  and  inno- 
centest infant  !  And  is  my  darling,"  pursued  Susan,  with 
another  close  embrace  and  burst  of  tears,  "  really,  really 
going  to  be  married  !  " 

The  mixture  of  compassion,  pleasure,  tenderness,  protec- 
tion, and  regret  with  which  the  Nipper  constantly  recurred 
to  this  subject,  and  at  every  such  recurrence,  raised  her  head 
to  look  in  the  young  face  and  kiss  it,  and  then  laid  her  head 
again  upon  her  mistress's  shoulder,  caressing  her  and  sob- 
bing, was  as  womanly  and  good  a  thing,  in  its  way,  as  ever 
was  seen  in  the  world. 

"  There,  there  ! "  said  the  soothing  voice  of  Florence 
presently.     "  Now  you're  quite  yourself,  dear  Susan  !  " 

Miss  Nipper,  sitting  down  upon  the  floor  at  her  mistress's 
feet,  laughing  and  sobbing,  holding  her  pocket-handkerchief 
to  her  eyes  with  one  hand,  and  patting  Diogenes  with  the 
other  as  he  licked  her  face,  confessed  to  being  more 
composed,  and  laughed  and  cried  a  little  more  in  proof 
of  it. 

"  I — I — I  never  did  see  such  a  creetur  as  that  Toots,"  said 
Susan,  "  in  all  my  born  days  never  !  " 

"  So  kind,"  suggested  Florence. 

"  And  so  comic  !  "  Susan  sobbed      "  The  way  he's  been 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  775 

going  on  inside  with  me  with  that  disrespectable  Chicken  on 
the  box  !  " 

"About  what,  Susan?"  inquired  Florence,  timidly. 

*'  Oh  about  Lieutenant  Walters,  and  Captain  Gills,  and 
you  niy  dear  Miss  Floy,  and  the  silent  tomb,"  said  Susan. 

"  The  silent  tomb  !  "  repeated  Florence. 

"  He  says,"  here  Susan  burst  into  a  violent  hysterical 
laugh,  ''  that  he'll  go  down  into  it  now  immediately  and 
quite  comfortable,  but  bless  your  heart  my  dear  Miss  Floy 
he  won't,  he's  a  great  deal  too  happy  in  seeing  other  people 
happy  for  that,  he  may  not  be  a  Solomon,"  pursued  the  Nip- 
per, with  her  usual  volubility,  "  nor  do  I  say  he  is  but  this 
I  do  say  a  less  selfish  human  creature  human  nature  never 
knew  !  " 

Miss  Nipper  being  still  hysterical,  laughed  immoderately 
after  making  this  energetic  declaration,  and  then  informed 
Florence  that  he  was  waiting  below  to  see  her  ;  which 
would  be  a  rich  repayment  for  the  trouble  he  had  had  in  his 
late  expedition. 

Florence  entreated  Susan  to  beg  Mr.  Toots  as  a  favor 
that  she  might  have  the  pleasure  of  thanking  him  for  his 
kindness  ;  and  Susan,  in  a  few  moments,  produced  that 
young  gentleman,  still  very  much  disheveled  in  appearance, 
and  stammering  exceedingly. 

*'Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "To  be  again  per- 
mitted to — to — gaze — at  least,  not  to  gaze,  but — I  don't 
exactly  know  what  I  was  going  to  say,  but  it's  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

"I  have  to  thank  you  so  often,"  returned  Florence, 
giving  him  both  her  hands,  with  all  her  innocent  gratitude 
beaming  in  her  face,  "  that  I  have  no  words  left,  and  don't 
know  how  to  do  it." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  awful  voice,  "  if 
it  was  possible  that  you  could,  consistently  with  your 
angelic  nature,  curse  me,  you  would — if  I  may  be  allowed  to 
say  so — floor  me  infinitely  less,  than  by  these  undeserved 
expressions  of  kindness.  Their  effect  upon  me — is — but," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  abruptly,  "  this  is  a  digression,  and's  of  no 
consequence  at  all." 

As  there  seemed  to  be  no  means  of  replying  to  this,  but 
by  thanking  him  again,  Florence  thanked  him  again. 

"  I  could  wish,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  to  take  this  oppor- 
tunity. Miss  Dombey,  if  I  might,  of  entering  into  a  word  of 
explanation.     I  should  have  h^d  the  pleasure  of — of  return- 


776  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

ing  with  Susan  at  an  earlier  period  ;  but,  in  the  first  place, 
we  didn't  know  the  name  of  the  relation  to  whose  house  she 
had  gone,  and,  in  the  second,  as  she  had  left  that  relation's 
and  gone  to  another  at  a  distance,  I  think  that  scarcely  any 
thing  short  of  the  sagacity  of  the  Chicken  would  have  found 
her  out  in  the  time." 

Florence  was  sure  of  it. 

"  This,  however,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  is  not  the  point.  The 
company  of  Susan  has  been,  I  assure  you,  Miss  Dombey,  a 
consolation  and  satisfaction  to  me,  in  my  state  of  mind, 
more  easily  conceived  than  described.  The  journey  has 
been  its  own  reward.  That,  however,  still,  is  not  the 
point.  Miss  Dombey,  I  have  before  observed  that  I  know 
I  am  not  what  is  considered  a  quick  person.  I  am  per- 
fectly aware  of  that.  I  don't  think  any  body  could  be  better 
acquainted  with  his  own — if  it  was  not  too  strong  an 
expression,  I  should  say  with  the  thickness  of  his  own  head 
— than  myself.  But  Miss  Dombey,  I  do,  notwithstanding, 
perceive  the  state  of — of  things — with  Lieutenant  Walters. 
Whatever  agony  that  state  of  things  may  have  caused  me 
(which  is  of  no  consequence  at  all),  I  am  bound  to  say  that 
Lieutenant  Walters  is  a  person  who  appears  to  be  worthy  of 
the  blessing  that  has  fallen  on  his — on  his  brow.  May  he 
w^ear  it  long,  and  appreciate  it,  as  a  very  different  and  very 
unworthy  individual,  that  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  name, 
would  have  done  !  That,  however,  still,  is  not  the  point. 
Miss  Dombey,  Captain  Gills  is  a  friend  of  mine  ;  and 
during  the  interval  that  is  now  elapsing,  I  believe  it  would 
afford  Captain  Gills  pleasure  to  see  me  occasionally  coming 
backward  and  forward  here.  It  would  afford  me  pleasure 
so  to  come.  But  I  can  not  forget  that  I  once  committed 
myself,  fatally,  at  the  corner  of  the  square  at  Brighton  ;  and 
if  my  presence  will  be,  in  the  least  degree,  unpleasant  to 
you,  I  only  ask  you  to  name  it  to  me  now,  and  assure  you 
that  I  shall  perfectly  understand  you.  I  shall  not  consider 
it  at  all  unkind,  and  shall  only  be  too  delighted  and  happy 
to  be  honored  with  your  confidence." 

"  Mr.  Toots,"  returned  Florence,  "  if  you,  who  are  so  old 
and  true  a  friend  of  mine,  were  to  stay  away  from  this  house 
now.  you  would  make  me  very  unhappy.  It  can  never, 
never,  give  me  any  feeling  but  pleasure  to  see  you." 

"  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  taking  out  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  "  if  I  shed  a  tear,  it  is  a  tear  of  joy.  It  is  of 
no  consequence^  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you.     I 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  777 

may  be  allowed  to  remark,  after  what  you  have  so  kindly 
said,  that  it  is  not  my  intention  to  neglect  my  person  any 
longer." 

Florence  received  this  intimation  with  the  prettiest  expres- 
sion of  perplexity  possible. 

"  I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  I  shall  consider  it  my 
duty  as  a  fellow-creature  generally,  until  I  am  claimed  by 
the  silent  tomb,  to  make  the  best  of  myself,  and  to — to  have 
my  boots  as  brightly  polished  as — as  circumstances  will 
admit  of.  This  is  the  last  time,  Miss  Dombey,  of  my 
intruding  any  observation  of  a  private  and  personal  nature. 
I  thank  you  very  much  indeed.  If  I  am  not,  in  a  general 
way,  as  sensible  as  my  friends  could  wish  me  to  be,  or  as  I 
could  wish  myself,  I  really  am,  upon  my  word  and  honor, 
particularly  sensible  of  what  is  considerate  and  kind.  I 
feel,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  an  impassioned  tone,  '^  as  if  I  could 
express  my  feelings,  at  the  present  moment,  in  a  most 
remarkable  manner,  if — if — I  could  only  get  a  start." 

Appearing  not  to  get  it,  after  vs-aiting  a  minute  or  two  to 
see  if  it  would  come,  Mr.  Toots  took  a  hasty  leave,  and  went 
below  to  seek  the  captain,  whom  he  found  in  the  shop. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  is  now  to  take 
place  between  us  takes  place  under  the  sacred  seal  of  con- 
fidence. It  is  the  sequel,  Captain  Gills,  of  what  has  taken 
place  between  myself  and  Miss  Dombey  up-stairs." 

*'  Alow  and  aloft,  eh,  my  lad  ? "  murmured  the  cap- 
tain. 

"  Exactly  so,  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  whose  fervor 
of  acquiescence  was  greatly  heightened  by  his  entire 
ignorance  of  the  captain's  meaning.  "  Miss  Dombey,  I 
believe.  Captain  Gills,  is  to  be  shortly  united  to  Lieutenant 
Walters?" 

^'  Why,  ay,  my  lad.  We're  all  shipmets  here — Wal'r  and 
sweetheart  will  be  jined  together  in  the  house  of  bondage  as 
soon  as  the  askings  is  over,"  whispered  Captain  Cuttle  in  his 
ear. 

''  The  askings.  Captain  Gills  !  "  repeated  Mr.  Toots. 

"  In  the  church,  down  yonder,"  said  the  captain,  pointing 
his  thumb  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh  !  yes  !  "  returned  :>Ir.  Toots. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  captain  in  his  hoarse  v^-hisper,  and 

tapping  Mr.  Toots  on  the   chest  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 

and  falling  from  him  with  a   look    of    infinite    admiration, 

*'  what  follers  ?      That  there  pretty  creetur.   as  delicately 


778  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

brought  up  as  a  foreign  bird,  goes  away  upon  the  roaring 
main  with  Wal'r  on  a  woyage  to  China  !  " 

"  Lord,  Captain  Gills  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots. 

"  Ay  !  "  nodded  the  captain.  *'  The  ship  as  took  him  up, 
when  he  was  wrecked  in  the  hurricane  that  had  drove  her 
clean  out  of  her  course,  was  a  China  trader,  and  Wal'r  made 
the  woyage,  and  got  into  favor,  aboard  and  ashore — being 
as  smart  and  good  a  lad  as  ever  stepped — and  so,  the  super- 
cargo dying  at  Canton,  he  got  made  (having  acted  as  clerk 
afore),  and  now  he's  supercargo  aboard  another  ship,  same 
owners.  And  so,  you  see,"  repeated  the  captain,  thought- 
fully, '*  the  pretty  creetur  goes  away  upon  the  roaring  main 
with  Wal'r,  on  a  woyage  to  China." 

Mr.  Toots  and  Captain  Cuttle  heaved  a  sigh  in  concert. 

"  What  then  ?  "  said  the  captain.  *'  She  loves  him  true. 
He  loves  her  true.  Them  as  should  have  loved  and  tended 
of  her,  treated  of  her  like  the  beasts  as  perish.  When  she, 
cast  out  of  home,  come  here  to  me,  and  dropped  upon  them 
planks,  her  wownded  heart  was  broke.  I  know  it.  I,  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  see  it.  There's  nowt  but  true,  kind,  steady  love,  as 
can  ever  piece  it  up  again.  If  so  be  I  didn't  know  that, 
and  didn't  know  as  Wal'r  was  her  true  love,  brother,  and 
she  his,  I'd  have  these  here  blue  arms  and  legs  chopped  off, 
afore  I'd  let  her  go.  But  I  ^c^know  it,  and  what  then  ?  Why, 
then,  I  say,  heaven  go  with  'em  both,  and  so  it  will  !  Amen  !" 

**  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  let  me  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  shaking  hands.  You've  a  way  of  saying  things,  that 
gives  me  an  agreeable  warmth  all  up  my  back.  /  say  amen. 
You  are  aware.  Captain  Gills,  that  I,  too,  have  adored  Miss 
Dombey." 

"  Cheer  up  !  "  said  the  captain,  laying  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Toots's  shoulder.     "  Stand  by,  boy  !  " 

"  It  is  my  intention.  Captain  Gills,"  returned  the  spirited 
Mr.  Toots,  "  fo  cheer  up.  Also  to  stand  by,  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. When  the  silent  tomb  shall  yawn,  Captain  Gills,  I 
shall  be  ready  for  burial  ;  not  before.  But  not  being  cer- 
tain just  at  present  of  my  power  over  myself,  what  I  wish  to 
say  to  you,  and  what  I  shall  take  it  as  a  particular  favor  if 
you  will  mention  to  Lieutenant  Walters,  is  as  follows." 

"  Is  as  follers,"  echoed  the  captain.     "  Steady  !  " 

'*  Miss  Dombey  being  so  inexpressibly  kind,"  continued 
Mr,  Toots  with  watery  eyes,  "  as  to  say  that  my  presence  is 
the  reverse  of  disagreeable  to  her,  and  you  and  every  body 
here  being  no  less  forbearing  and   tolerant   toward  one  who 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  779 

— who  certainly,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  momentary  dejec- 
tion, "  would  appear  to  have  been  born  by  mistake,  I  shall 
come  backward  and  forward  of  an  evening,  during  the  short 
time  we  can  all  be  together.  But  what  I  ask  is  this.  If  at 
any  moment  I  find  that  I  can  not  endure  the  contemplation 
of  Lieutenant  Walters*  bliss,  and  should  rush  out,  I  hope, 
Captain  Gills,  that  you  and  he  will  both  consider  it  as  my 
misfortune  and  not  my  fault,  or  the  want  of  inward  conflict. 
That  you'll  feel  convinced  I  bear  no  malice  to  any  living 
creature — least  of  all  to  Lieutenant  Walters  himself — and 
that  you'll  casually  remark  that  I  have  gone  out  for  a  walk, 
or  probably  to  see  what  o'clock  it  is  by  the  royal  exchange. 
Captain  Gills,  if  you  could  enter  into  this  arrangement,  and 
could  answer  for  Lieutenant  Walters,  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
my  feelings  that  I  should  think  cheap  at  the  sacrifice  of  a 
considerable  portion  of  my  property." 

"  My  lad,"  returned  the  captain,  "  say  no  more.  There 
ain't  a  color  you  can  run  up  as  won't  be  made  out  and 
answered  to  by  Wal'r  and  self." 

^'  Captain  Gills,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  *'  my  mind  is  greatly 
relieved.  I  wish  to  preserve  the  good  opinion  of  all  here. 
J — I — mean  well,  upon  my  honor,  however  badly  I  may 
show  it.  You  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it's  exactly  as  if 
Burgess  and  Co.  wished  to  oblige  a  customer  with  a  most 
extraordinary  pair  of  trowsers,  and  cotild  not  cut  out  what 
they  had  in  their  minds." 

With  this  apposite  illustration,  of  which  he  seemed  a  little 
proud,  Mr.  Toots  gave  Captain  Cuttle  his  blessing  and 
departed. 

The  honest  captain,  with  his  Heart's  Delight  in  the  house, 
and  Susan  tending  her,  was  a  beaming  and  a  happy  man. 
As  the  days  flew  by,  he  grew  more  beaming  and  more  happy 
every  day.  After  some  conferences  with  Susan  (for  whose 
wisdom  the  captain  had  a  profound,  respect,  and  whose 
valiant  precipitation  of  herself  on  Mrs.  MacStinger  he  could 
never  forget),  he  proposed  to  Florence  that  the  daughter  of 
the  elderly  lady  who  usually  sat  under  the  blue  umbrella  in 
Leadenhall  market  should,  for  prudential  reasons  and  con- 
siderations of  privacy,  be  superseded  in  the  temporary  dis- 
charge of  the  household  duties  by  some  one  who  was  not 
unknown  to  them,  and  in  whom  they  could  safely  confide. 
Susan,  being  present,  then  named,  in  furtherance  of  a  sug- 
gestion she  had  previously  offered  to  the  captain,  Mrs. 
Richards.     Florence  brightened  at  the  name.     And   Susan, 


78o  DOMBEY   AND   SON, 

setting  off  that  very  afternoon  to  the  Toodle  domicile,  to 
sound  Mrs,  Richards,  returned  in  triumph  the  same  evening, 
accompanied  by  the  identical  rosy-cheeked  apple-faced 
Polly,  whose  demonstrations,  when  brought  into  Florence's 
presence,  were  hardly  less  affectionate  than  those  of  Susan 
Nipper  herself. 

This  piece  of  generalship  accomplished  ;  from  which  the 
captain  derived  uncommon  satisfaction,  as  he  did,  indeed, 
from  every  thing  else  that  was  done,  whatever  it  happened 
to  be  ;  Florence  had  next  to  prepare  Susan  for  their 
approaching  separation.  This  was  a  much  more  difficult 
task,  as  Miss  Nipper  was  of  a  resolute  disposition,  and  had 
fully  made  up  her  mind  that  she  had  come  back,  never  to  be 
parted  from  her  old  mistress  any  more. 

"  As  to  wages  dear  Miss  Floy,"  she  said,  *'you  wouldn't 
hint  and  wrong  me  so  as  think  of  naming  them,  for  I've  put 
money  by  and  wouldn't  sell  my  love  and  duty  at  a  time  like 
this  even  if  the  savings'  banks  and  me  were  total  strangers 
or  the  banks  were  broke  to  pieces,  but  you've  never  been 
without  me  darling  from  the  time  your  poor  dear  ma  was 
took  away,  and  though  Fm  nothing  to  be  boasted  of  you're 
used  to  me  and  oh  my  own  dear  mistress  through  so  many 
years  don't  think  of  going  anywhere  without  me,  for  it 
mustn't  and  can't  be  !  " 

"  Dear  Susan,  I  am  going  on  a  long,  long  voyage." 

"  Well,  Miss  Floy,  and  what  of  that  ?  the  more  you'll  want 
me.  Lengths  of  voyages  ain't  an  object  in  my  eyes,  thank 
God  !  "   said  the  impetuous  Susan  Nipper. 

"  But,  Susan,  I  am  going  with  Walter,  and  I  would  go 
with  Walter  anywhere — everywhere  !  Walter  is  poor,  and  I 
am  very  poor,  and  I  must  learn  now  both  to  help  myself  and 
help  him." 

''  Dear  Miss  Floy  !  "  cried  Susan,  bursting  out  afresh,  and 
shaking  her  head  violently,  '*  it's  nothing  new  to  you  to  help 
yourself  and  others  too  and  be  the  patientest  and  truest  of 
noble  hearts,  but  let  me  talk  to  Mr.  Walter  Gay  and  settle 
it  with  him,  for  suffer  you  to  go  away  across  the  world  alone 
I  can  not,  and  I  won't." 

"  Alone,  Susan  ?  "  returned  Florence.  *'  Alone  ?  and 
Walter  taking  me  with  him  !  "  Ah,  what  a  bright,  amazed, 
enraptured  smile  was  on  her  face  ! — He  should  have  seen 
it.  "  I  am  sure  you  will  not  speak  to  Walter  if  I  ask  you 
not,"  she  added,  tenderly  ;  ''  and  pray  don't,  dear." 

Susan  sobbed,  "  Why  not,  Miss  Floy  ?  " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  781 

"  Because,"  said  Florence,  "  I  am  going  to  be  his  wife,  to 
give  him  up  my  whole  heart,  and  to  live  with  him  and  to  die 
with  him.  He  might  think,  if  you  said  to  him  what  you 
hare  said  to  me,  that  I  am  afraid  of  what  is  before  me,  or 
that  you  h^ve  some  cause  to  be  afraid  for  me.  Why,  Susan, 
dear,  I  love  him  I  " 

Miss  Nipper  was  so  much  affected  by  the  quiet  fervor  of 
these  words,  and  the  sim.ple,  heartfelt,  all-pervading  earnest- 
ness expressed  in  them,  and  making  the  speaker's  face  more 
beautiful  and  pure  than  ever,  that  she  could  only  cling  to 
her  again,  crying,  was  her  little  mistress  really,  really  going 
to  be  married,  and  pitying,  caressing  and  protecting  her,  as 
she  had  done  before. 

But  the  Nipper,  though  susceptible  of  womanly  weak- 
nesses, was  almost  as  capable  of  putting  constraint  upon  her- 
self as  of  attacking  the  redoubtable  MacStinger.  From  that 
time  she  never  returned  to  the  subject,  but  was  always 
cheerful,  active,  bustling,  and  hopeful.  She  did,  indeed, 
inform  Mr.  Toots  privately  that  she  was  only  "  keeping 
up  "  for  the  time,  and  that  when  it  was  all  over,  and  Miss 
I  )ombey  was  gone,  she  might  be  expected  to  become  a  spec- 
tacle distressful ;  and  Mr.  Toots  did  also  express  that  it  was 
his  case  too,  and  that  they  would  mingle  their  tears  together; 
but  she  never  otherwise  indulged  her  private  feelings  in  the 
presence  of  Florence  or  within  the  precincts  of  the  midship- 
man. 

Limited  and  plain  as  Florence's  wardrobe  was — what  a 
contrast  to  that  prepared  for  the  last  marriage  in  which  she 
had  taken  part  I — there  was  a  good  deal  to  do  in  getting  it 
ready,  and  Susan  Nipper  worked  away  at  her  side  all  day 
with  the  concentrated  zeal  of  fifty  seamstresses.  The  won- 
derful contributions  Captain  Cuttle  would  have  made  to  this 
branch  of  the  outfit,  if  he  had  been  permitted — as  pink  par- 
asols, tinted  silk  stockings,  blue  shoes,  and  other  articles  no 
less  necessary  on  shipboard — would  occupy  some  space  in 
the  recital.  He  was  induced,  however,  by  various  fraudu- 
lent representations,  to  limit  his  contributions  to  a  work-box 
and  dressing-case,  of  each  of  which  he  purchased  the  very 
largest  specimen  that  could  be  got  for  the  money.  For  ten  days 
or  a  fortnight  afterward,  he  generally  sat,  during  the  greater 
portion  of  the  day,  gazing  at  these  boxes  ;  divided  between 
extreme  admiration  of  them,  and  dejected  misgivings  that 
they  were  not  gorgeous  enough,  and  frequently  diving  out  into 
the  street  to  purchase  some  wild  article  that  he  deemed  nee- 


782  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

essary  to  their  completeness.  But  his  master-stroke  v/as  the 
bearing  of  them  both  off  suddenly  one  morning,  and  getting 
the  two  words  Florence  Gay  engraved  upon  a  brass  heart 
inlaid  over  the  lid  of  each.  After  this  he  smoked  four  pipes 
successively  in  the  little  parlor  by  "himself,  and  was  dis- 
covered chuckling  at  the  expiration  of  as  many  hours. 

Walter  was  busy  and  away  all  day,  but  came  there  every 
morning  early  to  see  Florence,  and  always  passed  the  evening 
with  her.  Florence  never  left  her  high  rooms  but  to  steal  down- 
stairs to  wait  for  him  when  it  was  his  time  to  come,  or  shel- 
tered by  his  proud  encircling  arm,  to  bear  him  company  to 
the  door  again,  and  sometimes  peep  into  the  street.  In  the 
twilight  they  were  always  together.  Oh  blessed  time  !  Oh 
wandering  heart  at  rest  !  Oh  deep,  exhaustless,  mighty  well 
of  love,  in  which  so  much  was  sunk  ! 

The  cruel  mark  was  on  her  bosom  yet.  It  rose  against  her 
father  with  the  breath  she  drew,  it  lay  between  her  and  her 
lover  when  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart.  But  she  forgot  it. 
In  the  beating  of  that  heart  for  her,  and  in  the  beating  of 
her  own  for  him,  all  harsher  music  was  unheard,  all 
stern  unloving  hearts  forgotten.  Fragile  and  delicate  she 
was,  but  with  a  might  of  love  within  her  that  could,  and 
did,  create  a  world  to  fly  to,  and  to  rest  in,  out  of  his  own 
image. 

How  often  did  the  great  house,  and  the  old  days  come 
before  her  in  the  twilight  time,  when  she  was  sheltered  by 
the  arm  so  proud,  so  fond,  and,  creeping  closer  to  him, 
shrunk  within  it  at  the  recollection  !  How  often,  from 
remembering  the  night  when  she  went  down  to  that  room, 
and  met  the  never-to-be-forgotten  look,  did  she  raise  her 
eyes  to  those  that  watched  her  with  such  loving  earnestness, 
and  weep  with  happiness  in  such  a  refuge  !  The  more  she 
clung  to  it,  the  more  the  dear  dead  child  was  in  her 
thoughts  ;  but  as  if  the  last  time  she  had  seen  her  father 
had  been  when  he  was  sleeping  and  she  kissed  his  face, 
she  always  left  him  so,  and  never,  in  her  fancy  passed  that 
hour. 

"  Walter,  dear,"  said  Florence,  one  evening  when  it 
was  almost  dark.  ''  Do  you  know  what  I  have  been  thinking 
to-day  ?" 

"  Thinking  how  the  time  is  flying  on,  and  how  soon  we 
shall  be  on  the  sea,  sweet  Florence." 

'*  I  don't  mean  that,  Walter,  though  I  think  of  that  too.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  what  a  charge  I  am  to  you." 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  783 

"  A  precious,  sacred  charge,  dear  heart  !  Why,  /  think 
that  sometimes." 

"  You  are  laughing,  Walter,  I  know  that's  much  more  in 
your  thoughts  than  mine.     But  I  mean  a  cost." 

"  A  cost,  my  own  ? " 

"  In  money,  dear.  All  these  preparations  that  Susan  and 
I  are  so  busy  with — I  have  been  able  to  purchase  very  little 
for  myself.  You  were  poor  before.  But  how  much  poorer 
I  shall  make  you,  Walter  ! " 

"  And  how  much  richer,  Florence  !  " 

Florence  laughed  and  shook  her  head. 

"Besides,"  said  Walter,  ''long  ago — before  I  went  to 
sea — I  had  a  little  purse  presented  to  me,  dearest,  which  had 
money  in  it." 

"Ah  !  "  returned  Florence,  laughing  sorrowfully,  "  very 
little  !  Very  little,  Walter  !  But  you  must  not  think,"  and 
here  she  laid  her  light  hand  on  his  shoulder  and  looked  into 
his  face,  "  that  I  regret  to  be  this  burden  on  you.  No,  dear 
love,  I  am  glad  of  it.  I  am  happy  in  it.  I  wouldn't  have  it 
otherwise  for  all  the  world." 

"  Nor  I  indeed,  dear  Florence." 

"  Ah  !  but  Walter,  you  can  never  feel  it  as  I  do.  I  am  so 
proud  of  you  !  It  makes  my  heart  swell  with  such  delight 
to  know  that  those  who  speak  of  you  must  say  you  married 
a  poor  disowned  girl,  who  had  taken  shelter  here  ;  who 
had  no  other  home,  no  other  friends  ;  who  had  nothing 
— nothing  !  Oh,  Walter,  if  I  could  have  brought  you  mil- 
lions, I  never  could  have  been  so  happy  for  your  sake  as 
I  am  !" 

"  And  you,  dear  Florence,  are  you  nothing  ? "  he 
returned. 

"  No,  nothing,  Walter.  Nothing  but  your  wife."  The 
light  hand  stole  about  his  neck,  and  the  voice  came  nearer 
— nearer.  "  I  am  nothing  any  more,  that  is  not  you.  I  have 
no  earthly  hope  any  more,  that  is  not  you.  I  have  nothing 
dear  to  me  any  more,  that  is  not  you." 

Oh  !  well  might  Mr.  Toots  leave  the  little  company  that 
evening,  and  twice  go  out  to  correct  his  watch  by  the  royal 
exchange,  and  once  to  keep  an  appointment  with  a  banker 
which  he  suddenly  remembered,  and  once  to  take  a  little 
turn  to  Aldgate  pump  and  back  ! 

But  before  he  went  upon  these  expeditions,  or  indeed 
before  he  came,  and  before  lights  were  brought,  Walter 
said  ; 


7^4  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

''Florence,  love,  the  lading  of  our  ship  is  nearly  finished, 
and  probably  on  the  very  day  of  our  marriage  she  will  drop 
down  the  river.  Shall  we  go  away  that  morning,  and  stay 
in  Kent  until  we  go  on  board  at  Gravesend  within  a  week  ? " 

''  If  you  please,  Walter.  I  shall  be  happy  anywhere. 
But—" 

"  Yes,  my  life  ?  " 
^  "  You  know,"  said  Florence,  "  that  we  shall  have  no  mar- 
riage party,  and  that  nobody  will  distinguish  us  by  our  dress 
from  other  people.  As  we  leave  the  same  day,  will  you — 
will  you  take  me  somewhere  that  morning,  Walter — early 
— before  we  go  to  church  ?  " 

Walter  seemed  to  understand  her,  as  so  true  a  lover  so 
truly  loved  should,  and  confirmed  his  ready  promise  with  a 
kiss — with  more  than  one  perhaps,  or  two  or  three,  or  five  or 
six  ;  and  in  the  grave,  peaceful  evening,  Florence  was  very 
happy. 

Then  into  the  quiet  room  came  Susan  Nioper  and  the 
candles  ;  shortly  afterward,  the  tea,  the  captain,  and  the 
excursive  Mr.  Toots,  who,  as  above  mentioned,  was  fre- 
quently on  the  move  afterward,  and  passed  but  a  restless 
evening.  This,  however,  was  not  his  habit  ;  for  he  generally 
got  on  very  well,  by  dint  of  playing  at  cribbage  with  the 
captain  under  the  advice  and  guidance  of  Miss  Nipper,  and 
distracting  his  mind  with  the  calculations  incidental  to  the 
game  ;  which  he  found  to  be  a  very  effectual  means  of 
utterly  confounding  himself. 

The  captain's  visage  on  these  occasions  presented  one 
of  the  finest  examples  of  combination  and  succession  of 
expression  ever  observed.  His  instinctive  delicacy  and  his 
chivalrous  feeling  toward  Florence  taught  him  that  it  was 
not  a  time  for  any  boisterous  jollity,  or  violent  display  of 
satisfaction.  Certain  floating  reminiscences  of  Lovely  Peg, 
on  the  other  hand,  were  constantly  struggling  for  a  vent, 
and  urging  the  captain  to  commit  himself  by  some  irrepar- 
able demonstration.  Anon,  his  admiration  of  Florence  and 
Walter — well  matched,  truly,  and  full  of  grace  and  interest 
in  their  youth,  and  love,  and  good  looks  as  they  sat  apart — 
would  take  such  complete  possession  of  him,  that  he  would 
lay  down  his  cards,  and  beam  upon  them,  dabbing  his  head 
all  over  with  his  pocket-handkerchief  ;  until  warned,  per- 
haps, by  the  sudden  rushing  forth  of  Mr.  Toots,  that  he 
had  unconsciously  been  very  instrumental,  indeed,  in  making 
that  gentleman  miserable.     This  reflection  would  make  the 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  7S5 

captain  profoundly  melancholy,  until  the  return  of  "^Ir. 
Toots  ;  when  he  would  fall  to  his  cards  again,  with  many  side 
winks  and  nods,  and  polite  waves  of  his  hook  at  Miss  Nip- 
per, importing  that  he  wasn't  going  to  do  so  any  more.  The 
state  that  ensued  on  this  was,  perhaps,  his  best  ;  for  then, 
endeavoring  to  discharge  all  expression  from  his  face,  he 
would  sit,  staring  round  the  room,  with  all  these  expressions 
conveyed  into  it  at  once,  and  each  wrestling  with  the  other. 
Delighted  admiration  of  Florence  and  Walter  always  over- 
threw the  rest  and  remained  victorious  and  undisguised, 
unless  Mr.  Toots  made  another  rush  into  the  air,  and  then 
the  captain  would  sit,  like  a  remorseful  culprit,  until  he  came 
back  again,  occasionally  calling  upon  himself,  in  a  low, 
reproachful  voice,  to  "  Stand  by  !  "  or  growling  some  remon- 
strance to  *'  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  my  lad,"  on  the  want  of  caution 
observable  in  his  behavior. 

One  of  Mr.  Toots's  hardest  trials,  however,  was  of  his  own 
seeking.  On  the  approach  of  the  Sunday  which  was  to  wit- 
ness the  last  of  those  askings  in  church  of  which  the  captain 
had  spoken,  Mr.  Toots  thus  stated  his  feelings  to  Susan 
Nipper. 

"  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  am  drawn  toward  the  build- 
ing. The  words  which  cut  me  off  from  Miss  Dombey  for- 
ever will  strike  upon  my  ears  like  a  knell,  you  know  ;  but 
upon  my  word  and  honor,  I  feel  that  I  must  hear  them. 
Therefore,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  will  you  accompany  me 
to-morrow  to  the  sacred  edifice  ?  " 

Miss  Nipper  expressed  her  readiness  to  do  so,  if  that  would 
be  any  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Toots,  but  besought  him  to  aban- 
don his  idea  of  going. 

"  Susan,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  with  much  solemnity, 
*'  before  my  whiskers  began  to  be  observed  by  any  body  but 
myself,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  While  yet  a  victim  to  the 
thralldom  of  Blimber,  I  adored  Miss  Dombey.  When  I  could 
no  longer  be  kept  out  of  my  property,  in  a  legal  point  of 
view,  and — and  accordingly  came  into  it — I  adored  Miss 
Dombey.  The  banns  which  consign  her  to  Lieutenant  Wal- 
ters, and  me  to — to  gloom,  you  know,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  after 
hesitating  for  a  strong  expression,  "  may  be  dreadful,  7C'z7i  be 
dreadful  ;  but  I  feel  that  I  should  wish  to  hear  them  spoken. 
I  feel  that  I  should  wish  to  know  that  the  ground  was  cer- 
tainly cut  from  under  me,  and  that  I  hswln't  a  hope  to 
cherish,  or  a — or  a  leg,  in  short,  to — to  go  upon." 

Susan  Nipper  could  only  commiserate  Mr.  Toots's  unfor- 


786  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

tunate  condition,  and  agree,  under  these  circumstances,  to 
accompany  him  ;  which  she  did  next  morning. 

The  church  Walter  had  chosen  for  the  purpose  was  ?. 
moldy  old  church  in  a  yard,  hemmed  in  by  a  labyrinth  of 
back  streets  and  courts,  with  a  little  burying-ground  round 
it,  and  itself  buried  in  a  kind  of  vault,  formed  by  the  neigh- 
boring houses,  and  paved  with  echoing  stones.  It  was  a 
great  dim,  shabby  pile,  with  high  old  oaken  pews,  among 
which  about  a  score  of  people  lost  themselves  every  Sunday; 
while  the  clergyman's  voice  drowsily  resounded  through  the 
emptiness,  and  the  organ  rumbled  and  rolled  as  if  the  church 
had  got  the  colic,  for  want  of  a  congregation  to  keep  the 
wind  and  damp  out.  But  so  far  was  this  city  church  from 
languishing  for  the  company  of  other  churches,  that  spires 
were  clustered  round  it,  as  the  masts  of  shipping  cluster  on  the 
river.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  count  them  from  its 
steeple-top,  they  were  so  many.  In  almost  every  yard  and 
blind-place  near  there  was  a  church.  The  confusion  of 
bells  when  Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  betook  themselves  toward  it 
on  the  Sunday  morning,  was  deafening.  There  were  twenty 
churches  close  together,  clamoring  for  people  to  come  in. 

The  two  stray  sheep  in  question  were  penned  by  a  beadle 
in  a  commodious  pew,  and,  being  early,  sat  for  some  time 
counting  the  congregation,  listening  to  the  disappointed  bell 
high  up  in  the  tower,  or  looking  at  a  shabby  little  old  man 
in  the  porch  behind  the  screen,  who  was  ringing  the  same, 
like  the  bull  in  Cock  Robin,  with  his  foot  in  a  stirrup.  Mr. 
Toots,  after  a  lengthened  survey  of  the  large  books  on  the 
reading-desk,  whispered  Miss  Nipper  that  he  wondered 
where  the  banns  were  kept,  but  that  young  lady  merely 
shook  her  head  and  frowned  ;  repelling  for  the  time  all 
approaches  of  a  temporal  nature. 

Mr.  Toots,  however,  appearing  unable  to  keep  his 
thoughts  from  the  banns,  was  evidently  looking  out  for  them 
during  the  whole  preliminary  portion  of  the  service.  As  the 
time  for  reading  them  approached,  the  poor  young  gentle- 
man manifested  great  anxiety  and  trepidation,  which  was 
not  diminished  by  the  unexpected  apparition  of  the  captain 
in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery.  When  the  clerk  handed  up 
a  list  to  the  clergyman,  Mr.  Toots,  being  then  seated,  held 
on  by  the  seat  of  the  pew  ;  but  w^hen  the  names  of  Walter 
Gay  and  Florence  Dombey  were  read  aloud  as  being  in  the 
third  and  last  stage  of  that  association,  he  was  so  entirely 
conquered  by  his  feelings  as  to  rush  from  the  church  with' 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  787 

out  his  hat,  followed  by  the  beadle  and  pew-opener,  and  two 
gentlemen  of  the  medical  profession,  who  happened  to  be 
present  ;  of  whom  the  first-named  presently  returned  for 
that  article,  informing  Miss  Nipper  in  a  whisper  that  she 
was  not  to  make  herself  uneasy  about  the  gentleman,  as  the 
gentleman  said  his  indisposition  was  of  no  consequence.* 

Miss  Nipper,  feeling  that  the  eyes  of  that  integral  portion 
of  Europe  which  lost  itself  weekly  among  the  high-backed 
pews,  were  upon  her,  would  have  been  sufficiently  embar- 
rassed  by  this  incident,    though  it  had    terminated  here  ; 
the  more  so,  as  the  captain  in  the  front  row  of  the  gallery, 
was  in   a  state    of  unmitigated  consciousness  which    could 
hardly  fail  to  express  to  the  congregation  that  he  had  some 
mysterious  connection  with  it.     But  the   extreme   restless- 
ness of  Mr,  Toots  painfully   increased,  and  protracted  the 
delicacy  of  her  situation.     That  young  gentleman,  incapable, 
in  his  state  of  mind,  of  remaining  alone  in  the  church-yard, 
a  prey  to  solitary  meditation,   and  also  desirous,  no  doubt, 
of  testifying  his  respect  for  the  offices  he  had  in  some  meas- 
ure interrupted,  suddenly  returned — not  coming  back  to  the 
pew,  but  stationing  himself  on  a  free  seat  in  the  aisle  between 
two  elderly  females  who  were  in  the  habit  of  receiving  their 
portion  of  a  weekly  dole  of  bread  then  set  forth  on  a  shelf 
in   the   porch.     In   this   conjunction   Mr.   Toots   remained, 
greatly  disturbing  the  congregation,  who  felt  it  impossible 
to  avoid  looking    at  him,   until  his  feelings  overcame    him 
again,  when  he  departed   silently   and   suddenly.     Not  ven- 
turing to    trust   himself  in  the   church    any  more,  and  yet 
wishing  to  have  some  social  participation  in  what  was  going 
on  there,  Mr.  Toots  was,  after  this,  seen  from  time   to  time, 
looking  in  with  a  lorn  aspect,  at  one  or  other  of  the  windows  ; 
and  as  there  were  several    windows    accessible  to    him  from 
without,  and  as  his  restlessness  was  very  great,  it  not  only 
became    difficult    to  conceive  at   which  window    he   would 
appear  next,  but  likewise  became  necessary,  as   it  were,  for 
the  whole  congregation  to  speculate  upon  the  chances  of  the 
different  windows,  during  the  comparative  leisure    afforded 
them    by    the     sermon.     Mr.    Toots's    movements     in    the 
church-yard  were  so  eccentric,   that  he  seemed  generally  to 
defeat  all  calculations,   and   to   appear,  like  the    conjurer's 
figure,  where  he  was  least  expected  ;  and  the  effect  of  these 
mysterious  presentations  was  much  increased  by  its  being 
difficult  to  him  to  see  in,  and  easy  to  every  body  else  to  see 
out ;  which    occasioned    his  remaining   every  time   longer 


788  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

*Jian  might  have  been  expected,  with  his  face  close  to  the 
glass,  until  he  all  at  once  became  aware  that  all  eyes  were 
upon  him,  and  vanished. 

These  proceedings  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Toots,  and  the 
strong  individual  consciousness  of  them  that  was  exhibited 
by  the  captain,  rendered  Miss  Nipper's  position  so  responsi- 
ble an  one,  that  she  was  mightily  relieved  by  the  conclusion 
of  the  service  ;  and  was  hardly  so  affable  to  Mr.  Toots  as 
usual,  when  he  informed  her  and  the  captain,  on  the  way 
back,  that  now  he  was  sure  he  had  no  hope,  you  know,  he 
felt  more  comfortable — at  least  not  exactly  more  comfort- 
able, but  more  comfortably    and  completely  miserable. 

Swiftly  now,  indeed,  the  time  flew  by  until  it  was  the 
evening  before  the  day  appointed  for  the  marriage. 
They  were  all  assembled  in  the  upper  room  at  the  midship- 
man's, and  had  no  fear  of  interruption  ;  for  there  were  no 
lodgers  in  the  house  now,  and  the  midshipman  had  it  all  to 
himself.  They  were  grave  and  quiet  in  the  prospect  of  to- 
morrow, but  moderately  cheerful  too.  Florence,  with  Wal- 
ter close  beside  her,  was  finishing  a  little  piece  of  work 
intended  as  a  parting  gift  to  the  captain.  The  captain  was 
playing  cribbage  with  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots  was  taking  coun- 
sel as  to  his  hand,  of  Susan  Nipper.  Miss  Nipper  w^as 
giving  it,  with  all  due  secrecy  and  circumspection.  Dio- 
genes was  listening,  and  occasionally  breaking  out  into  a 
gruff,  half  smothered  fragment  of  a  bark,  of  which  he  after- 
ward seemed  half  ashamed,  as  if  he  doubted  having  any 
reason  for  it. 

"  Steady,  steady  !  "  said  the  captain  to  Diogenes,  "  what's 
amiss  with  you  ?  You  don't  seem  easy  in  your  mind  to- 
night, my  boy  !  " 

Diogenes  wagged  his  tail,  but  pricked  up  his  ears  imme- 
diately afterward,  and  gave  utterance  to  another  fragment  of 
a  bark  ;  for  which  he  apologized  to  the  captain  by  again 
wagging  his  tail. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  Di,"  said  the  captain,  looking  thought- 
fully at  his  cards,  and  stroking  his  chin  with  his  hook,  as 
you  have  your  doubts  of  Mrs.  Richards  ;  but  if  you're  the 
animal  I  take  you  to  be,  you'll  think  better  o'  that ;  for  her 
looks  is  her  commission.  Now,  brother  ;  "  to  Mr.  Toots  ; 
"  if  so  be  as  you're  ready,  heave  ahead." 

The  captain  spoke  with  all  composure  and  attention  to  the 
game,  but  suddenly  his  cards  dropped  out  of  his  hand,  his 
mouth  and  eyes  opened  wide,  his  legs  drew  themselves  up 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  7S9 

and  stuck  out  in  front  of  his  chair,  and  he  sat  staring  at  the 
door  with  blank  amazement.  Looking  round  upon  the  com- 
pany, and  seeing  that  none  of  them  observed  him  or  the 
cause  of  his  astonishment,  the  captain  recovered  himself  with 
a  great  gasp,  struck  the  table  a  tremendous  blow,  cried  in  a 
stentorian  roar,  "  Sol  Gills,  ahoy  !  "  and  tumbled  into  the 
arms  of  a  weather-beaten  pea-coat  that  had  come  with  Polly 
into  the  room. 

In  another  moment, Walter  was  in  the  arms  of  the  weather- 
beaten  pea-coat.     In  another  moment,  Florence  was  in  the 
arms  of  the  weather-beaten  pea-coat.     In  another  moment. 
Captain  Cuttle  had  embraced  Mrs.  Richards  and   Miss  Nip- 
per,   and    was    violently    shaking    hands  with   Mr.   Toots, 
exclaiming,  as  he  waved  his  hook  above  his  head,  "  Hooroar, 
my  lad,  hooroar  I  "     To  which  Mr.    Toots,  wholly  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  these  proceedings,  replied  with   great  polite- 
ness, "  Certainly,  Captain  Gills,  whatever  you  think  proper  !  " 
The  weather-beaten  pea-coat,  and  no  less  weather-beaten 
cap  and  comforter  belonging  to  it,  turned    from  the  captain 
and  from  Florence  back  to  Walter,   and   sounds  came  from 
the  weather-beaten  pea-coat,   cap,   and  comforter,   as  of  an 
old  man  sobbing  underneath  them  ;  while  the  shaggy  sleeves 
clasped  Walter  tight.     During   this  pause,  there  was  a  uni- 
versal silence,  and  the  captain  polished   his  nose  with  great 
diligence.     But  when  the  pea-coat,  cap,  and  comforter  lifted 
themselves  up  again,  Florence  gently  moved   toward  them  ; 
and  she  and  Walter  taking  them  off,  disclosed  the  old  instru- 
ment-maker, a  little  thinner  and  more  care-worn  than  of  old, 
in  his  old  Welsh  wig,   and    his   old  coffee-colored  coat  and 
basket  buttons,  wdth  his  old  infallible  chronometer  ticking 
away  in  his  pocket. 

"  Chock  full  o'  science,"  said  the  radiant  captain,  "  as  ever 
he  was  !  Sol  Gills,  Sol  Gills,  what  have  you  been  up  to  for 
this  many  a  long  day,  my  ould  boy  ?  " 

"  I'm  half  blind,  Ned,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and  almost 
deaf  and  dumb  with  joy." 

''  His  very  voice,"  said  the  captain,  looking  round  with  an 
exultation  to  which  even  his  face  could  hardly  render  jus- 
tice— "  his  very  voice  as  chock  full  of  science  as  ever  it 
was  !  Sol  Gills,  lay  to,  my  lad,  upon  your  own  wines  and 
fig-trees,  like  a  taut  ould  patriark  as  you  are,  and  overhaul 
them  there  adventures  o'  yourn  in  your  own  formilior  woice. 
'Tis  f/iewoicQ,"  said  the  captain,  impressively,  and  announc- 
ing a  quotation  with  his  hook,  "  of  the  sluggard,  I  heerdhim 


790  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

complain,  you  have  woke  me  too  soon,  I  must  slumber  again. 
Scatter  his  enemies,  and  make  'em  fall  !  " 

The  captain  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  had  hap- 
pily expressed  the  feelings  of  every  body  present,  and  imme- 
diately rose  again  to  present  Mr.  Toots,  who  was  much 
disconcerted  by  the  arrival  of  any  body  appearing  to  prefer 
a  claim  to  the  name  of  Gills. 

"  Although,"  stammered  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  had  not  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  acquaintance,  sir,  before  you  were — you  were — " 

"  Lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear,"  suggested  the  captain, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Exactly  so,  Captain  Gills! "  assented  Mr.  Toots. 
^'Although  I  had  not  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance, 
Mr. — Mr.  Sols,"  said  Toots,  hitting  on  that  name  in  the 
inspiration  of  a  bright  idea,  "  before  that  happened,  I  have 
the  greatest  pleasure,  I  assure  you,  in — you  know,  in  know- 
ing you.  I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  that  you  are  as  well  as 
can  be  expected." 

With  these  courteous  words,  Mr.  Toots  sat  down  blushing 
and  chuckling. 

The  old  instrument-maker,  seated  in  a  corner  between 
Walter  and  Florence,  and  nodding  at  Polly,  who  was 
looking  on,  all  smiles  and  delight,  answered  the  captain 
thus: 

"  Ned  Cuttle,  my  dear  boy,  although  I  have  heard  some- 
thing of  the  changes  of  events  here,  from  my  pleasant  friend 
there — what  a  pleasant  face  she  has,  to  be  sure,  to  welcome 
a  wanderer  home!  "  said  the  old  man,  breaking  off,  and  rub- 
bing his  hands  in  his  old  dreamy  way. 

*' Hear  him!"  cried  the  captain,  gravely.  *"Tis  woman 
as  seduces  all  mankind.  For  which,"  aside  to  Mr.  Toots, 
"you'll  overhaul  your  Adam  and  Eve,  brother." 

"  I  shall  make  a  point  of  doing  so.  Captain  Gills,"  said 
Mr.  Toots. 

"Although  I  have  heard  something  of  the  changes  of 
events  from  her,"  resumed  the  instrument-maker,  taking  his 
old  spectacles  from  his  pocket,  and  putting  them  on  bis  fore- 
head in  his  old  manner,  "  they  are  so  great  and  unexpected, 
and  I  am  so  overpowered  by  the  sight  of  my  dear  boy,  and 
by  the  " — glancing  at  the  downcast  eyes  of  Florence,  and 
not  attempting  to  finish  the  sentence — "  that  I — I  can't  say 
much  to-night.  But  mv  dear  Ned  Cuttle,  why  didn't  you 
write?" 

The  astonishment  depicted  in  the  captain's  features  posi- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  791 

tlvely  frightened  Mr.  Toots,  whose  eyes  were  quite  fixed  by 
it,  so  that  he  could  not  withdraw  them  from  his  face. 

"  Write  !  "  echoed  the  captain.     "  Write,  Sol  Gills  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man,  "  either  to  Barbados,  or  Jamaica, 
or  Demerara.     That  was  what  I  asked." 

''  What  you  asked,  Sol  Gills  ?  "  repeated  the  captain. 

"  Ay,"  said  the  old  man.  *'  Don't  you  know,  Ned  ?  Sure 
you  have  not  forgotten  ?     Every  time  I  wrote  to  you." 

The  captain  took  off  his  glazed  hat,  hung  it  on  his  hook, 
and  smoothing  his  hair  from  behind  with  his  hand,  sat  gaz- 
ing at  the  group  around  him  ;  a  perfect  image  of  wondering 
resignation. 

"  You  don't  appear  to  understand  me,  Ned  !  "  observed  old 
Sol. 

"  Sol  Gills,"  returned  the  captain,  after  staring  at  him  and 
the  rest  for  a  long-time,  without  speaking,  "I'm  gone  about 
and  adrift.  Pay  out  a  word  or  two  respecting  them  adwen- 
tures,  will  you  !  Gan't  I  bring  up,  nohows  ?  Nohows  .'* " 
said  the  captain,  ruminating,  and  staring  all  round. 

"  You  know,  Ned,"  said  Sol  Gills,  "  why  I  left  here.  Did 
you  open  my  packet,  Ned  ?  " 

"  Why,  ay,  ay,"  said  the  captain.  "  To  be  sure,  I  opened 
the  packet." 

"  And  read  it  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  And  read  it  !  "  answered  the  captain,  eying  him  atten- 
tively, and  proceeding  to  quote  from  memory.  "  '  My  dear 
Ned  Cuttle,  when  I  left  home  for  the  West  Indies  in  forlorn 
search  of  intelligence  of  my  dear — '  There  he  sits  !  There's 
Wal'r  !  "  said  the  captain,  as  if  he  were  relieved  by  getting 
hold  of  any  thing  that  was  real  and  indisputable. 

''  Well,  Ned.  Now  attend  a  moment !  "  said  the  old  mau; 
**  When  I  wrote  first — that  was  from  Barbados — I  said  that 
though  you  would  receive  that  letter  long  before  this  year 
was  out,  I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  open  the  packet,  as 
it  explained  the  reason  of  my  going  away.  Very  good,  Ned. 
When  I  wrote  the  second,  third,  and  perhaps  ihe  fourth 
times — that  was  from  Jamaica — I  said  I  was  in  just  the 
same  state,  couldn't  rest,  and  couldn't  come  away  from  that 
part  of  the  world,  without  knowing  that  my  boy  was  lost  or 
saved.  When  I  wrote  next — that,  I  think,  was  from  Dem- 
erara, wasn't  it  ?  " 

*'  That  he  thinks  was  from  Demerara,  warn't  it  !  "  said  the 
captain,  looking  hopelessly  round. 

" — I  said,"  proceeded  old  Sol,  "  that  still   there  was  no 


792  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

certain  information  got  yet.  That  I  found  many  captains 
and  others  in  that  part  of  the  world,  who  had  known  me  for 
years,  and  who  assisted  me  with  a  passage  here  and  there, 
and  for  whom  I  was  able,  now  and  then,  to  do  a  little  in 
return,  in  my  own  craft.  That  every  one  was  sorry  for  me, 
and  seemed  to  take  a  sort  of  interest  in  my  wanderings  ; 
and  then  I  began  to  think  it  would  be  my  fate  to  cruise 
about  in  search  of  tidings  of  my  boy  until  I  died." 

*'  Began  to  think  as  how  he  was  a  scientific  flying  Dutch- 
man !  "  said  the  captain,  as  before,  and  with  great  serious- 
ness. 

"  But  when  the  news  come  one  day,  Ned — that  was  to 
Barbados,  after  I  got  back  there — that  a  China  trader  home'ard 
bound  had  been  spoke,  that  had  my  boy  aboard,  then  Ned, 
I  took  passage  in  the  next  ship  and  came  home  ;  and  arrived 
at  home  to-night  to  find  it  true,  thank  God  ! "  said  the  old 
man,  devoutly. 

The  captain,  after  bowing  his  head  with  great  reverence, 
stared  all  round  the  circle,  beginning  with  Mr.  Toots,  and 
ending  with  the  instrument-maker  ;  then  gravely  said  : 

"  Sol  Gills  !  The  observation  as  I'm  going  to  make  is  cal- 
c'lated  to  blow  every  stitch  of  sail  as  you  can  carry  clean 
out  of  the  bolt-ropes,  and  bring  you  on  your  beam-ends 
with  a  lurch.  Not  one  of  them  letters  was  ever  delivered 
to  Ed'ard  Cuttle.  Not  one  o'  them  letters,"  repeated  the 
captain,  to  make  his  declaration  the  more  solemn  and 
impressive,  "  was  ever  delivered  unto  Ed'ard  Cuttle,  mariner, 
of  England,  as  lives  at  home  at  ease,  and  doth  improve  each 
shining  hour  !  ". 

''And  posted  by  my  own  hand!  And  directed  by  my  own 
hand,  number  nine  Brig  Place!  "  exclaimed  Old  Sol. 

The  color  all  went  out  of  the  captain's  face,  and  all  came 
back  again  in  a  glow. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Sol  Gills,  my  friend,  by  number  nine 
Brig  Place?"  inquired  the  captain. 

"  Mean  ?  Your  lodgings,  Ned,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"Mrs.  What's-her-name!  I  shall  forget  my  own  name  next, 
but  I  am  behind  the  present  time — I  always  was,  you  recol- 
lect— and  very  much  confused.     Mrs  — " 

"Sol  Gills!"  said  the  captain,  as  if  he  were  putting  the 
most  improbable  case  in  the  world,  "  it  ain't  the  name  of 
MacStinger  as  you're  a-trying  to  remember?" 

"  Of  course  it  is!  "  exclaimed  the  instrument-maker.  "  To 
be  sure,  Ned.     Mrs.  MacStinger!  " 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  793 

Captain  Cuttle,  whose  eyes  were  now  as  wide  open  as  they 
could  be,  and  the  knobs'  upon  whose  face  were  perfectly 
luminous,  gave  a  long  shrill  whistle  of  a  most  melancholy 
sound,  and  stood  gazing  at  every  body  in  a  state  of  speech- 
lessness. •    J     M 

"  Overhaul  that  there  again,  Sol  Gills,  will  you  be  so  kind  ? 

he  said  at  last. 

"All  these  letters,"  returned  Uncle  Sol,  beating  time  with 
the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of  his  left, 
with  a  steadiness  that  might  have  done  honor  even  to  the 
infaUible  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  "  I  posted  with  my  own 
hand,  and  directed  with  my  own  hand,  to  Captain  Cuttle,  at 
Mrs.  MacStinger's,  number  nine  Brig  Place." 

x^he  captain  took  his  glazed  hat  off  his  hook,  looked  into 
it,  put  it  on,  and  sat  down. 

"  Why,  friends  all,"  said  the  captain,  staring  round  in  the 
last  state  of  discomfiture,  "  I  cut  and  run  from  there!  " 

"And  no  one  knew  where  you  were  gone,  Captain  Cut- 
lie  ? "  cried  Walter,  hastily. 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Wal'r,"  said  the  captain,  shaking  his 
head,  "  she'd  never  have  allowed  o'  my  coming  to  take  charge 
o'  this  ere  property.  Nothing  could  be  done  but  to  cut  and 
run.  Lord  love  you,  Wal'r!  "  said  the  captain,  "  you've  only 
seen  her  in  a  calm!  But  see  her  when  her  angry  passions 
rise — and  make  a  note  on!  " 

*'/'d  give  it  her!  "  remarked  the  Nipper,  softly. 
"•'Would  you,  do  you  think,  my  dear  ?  "  returned  the  cap- 
tain, with  feeble  admiration.  "  Well,  my  dear,  it  does  you 
credit.  But  there  ain't  no  wild  animal  I  would  sooner  face 
myself.  I  only  got  my  chest  away  by  means  of  a  friend  as 
nobody's  a  match  for.  '  It  was  no  good  sending  any  letter 
there. '  S/)e  wouldn't  take  in  any  letter,  bless  you,"  said  the 
captain,  "  under  them  circumstances!  Why,  you  could  hardly 
make  it  worth  a  man's  while  to  be  the  postman!  " 

"  Then  it's  pretty  clear.  Captain  Cuttle,  that  all  of  us,  and 
you  and  Uncle  Sol  especially,"  said  Walter,  "  may  thank 
Mrs.  ^MacStinger  for  no  small  anxiety." 

The  general  obligation  in  this  wise  to  the  determined 
relict  of  the  late  Mr.  MacStinger  was  so  apparent  that  the 
caotain  did  not  contest  the  point;  but  being  in  some  measure 
ashamed  of  his  position,  though  nobody  dwelt  upon  the  sub- 
ject, and  Walter  especially  avoided  it,  remembering  the  last 
c-mversation  he  and  the  captain  had  held  together  respect- 
ing it,  he  remained  under  a  cloud  for  nearly  five  minutes — 


794  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

an  extraordinary  period  for  him — when  that  sun,  his  face, 
broke  out  once  more,  shining  on  all  beholders  with  extraor- 
dinary brilliancy;  and  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  shaking  hands 
with  every  body  over  and  over  again. 

At  an  early  hour,  but  not  before  Uncle  Sol  and  Walter 
had  questioned  each  other  at  some  length  about  their  voy- 
ages and  dangers,  they  all,  except  Walter,  vacated  Florence's 
room,  and  went  down  to  the  parlor.  Here  they  were  soon 
afterward  joined  by  Walter,  who  told  them  Florence  was  a 
little  sorrowful  and  heavy-hearted,  and  had  gone  to  bed. 
Though  they  could  not  have  disturbed  her  with  their  voices 
down  there,  they  all  spoke  in  a  whisper  after  this  ;  and  each, 
in  his  different  way,  felt  very  lovingly  and  gently  toward 
Walter's  fair  young  bride  ;  and  a  long  explanation  there  was 
of  every  thing  relating  to  her,  for  the  satisfaction  of  Uncle 
Sol  ;  and  very  sensible  Mr.  Toots  was  of  the  delicacy  with 
which  Walter  made  his  name  and  services  important,  and  his 
presence  necessary  to  their  little  council. 

*'  Mr,  Toots,"  said  Walter,  on  parting  with  him  at  the  house 
door,  "  we  shall  see  each  other  to-morrow  morning?" 

"  Lieutenant  Walters,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  grasping  his 
hand  fervently,  "  I  shall  certainly  be  present." 

"  This  is  the  last  night  we  shall  meet  for  a  long  time — the 
last  night  we  may  ever  meet,"  said  Walter.  *'  Such  a  noble 
heart  as  yours  must  feel,  I  think,  when  another  heart  is 
bound  to  it.  I  hope  you  know  that  I  am  very  grateful  to 
you  ? " 

"  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  quite  touched,  "  I  should 
be  glad  to  feel  that  you  had  reason  to  be  so." 

"  Florence,"  said  Walter,  "  on  this  last  night  of  her  bear- 
ing her  own  name,  has  made  me  promise — it  was  only  just 
now,  when  you  left  us  together — that  I  would  tell  you — with 
her  dear  love — " 

Mr.  Toots  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door-post,  and  his  eyes 
upon  his  hand. 

" — With  her  dear  love,"  said  Walter,  "  that  she  can  never 
have  a  friend  whom  she  will  value  above  you.  That  the 
recollection  of  your  true  consideration  for  her  always  can 
never  be  forgotten  by  her.  That  she  remembers  you  in  her 
prayers  to-night,  and  hopes  that  you  will  think  of  her  when 
she  is  far  awav.     Shall  I  say  any  thing  for  you  ?  " 

"  Say,  Walters,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  indistinctly,  ''  that  I 
shall  think  of  her  every  day,  but  never  without  feeling  happy 
to  know  that  she  is  married  to  the  man  she  loves,  and  who 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  795 

loves  her.     Say,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  sure  her  husband 
deserves  her — even  her  ! — and  that  I  am  glad  of  her  choice." 

Mr.  Toots  got  more  distinct  as  he  came  to  these  last  words, 
and  raising  his  eyes  from  the  door-post,  said  them  stoutly. 
He  then  shook  Walter's  hand  again  with  a  fervor  that  Walter 
was  not  slow  to  return,  and  started  homeward. 

Mr.  Toots  was  accompanied  by  the  Chicken,  whom  he  had 
of  late  brought  with  him  every  evening,  and  left  in  the  shop,with 
an  idea  that  unforeseen  circumstances  might  arise  from  with- 
out, in  which  the  prowess  of  that  distinguished  character  would 
be  of  service  to  the  midshipman.  The  Chicken  did  not  appear 
to  be  in  a  particularly  good  humor  on  this  occasion.  Either 
the  gas-lamps  were  treacherous,  or  he  cocked  his  eye  in  a 
hideous  manner,  and  likewise  distorted  his  nose,  when  Mr. 
Toots,  crossing  the  road,  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  room  where  Florence  slept.  On  the  road  home,  he  was 
more  demonstrative  of  aggressive  intentions  against  the  other 
foot  passengers  than  comported  with  a  professor  of  the 
peaceful  art  of  self-defense.  Arrived  at  home,  instead  of 
leaving  Mr.  Toots  in  his  apartments  when  he  had  escorted 
him  thither,  Jie  remained  before  him  weighing  his  white  hat 
in  both  hands  by  the  brim,  and  twitching  his  head  and  nose 
(both  of  which  had  been  many  times  broken,  and  but  indif- 
ferently repaired),  with  an  air  of  decided  disrespect. 

His  patron  being  much  engaged  with  his  own  thoughts, 
did  not  observe  this  for  some  time,  nor  indeed,  until  the 
Chicken,  determined  not  to  be  overlooked,  had  made  divers 
clicking  sounds  with  his  tongue  and  teeth, to  attract  attention. 

"  Now,  master,"  said  the  Chicken,  doggedly,  when  he  at 
length  caught  Mr.  Toots's  eye,  "  I  want  to  know  whether  this 
here  gammon  is  to  finish  it,  or  whether  you're  agoing  in  to 
win  ? " 

"Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  ''explain  yourself." 

"Why,  then,  here's  all  about  it,  master,"  said  the  Chicken. 
"  I  ain't  a  cove  to  chuck  a  word  away.  Here's  wot  it  is. 
Are  any  one  of  'em  to  be  doubled  up  ?" 

When  the  Chicken  put  this  question  he  dropped  his  hat, 
made  a  dodge  and  a  feint  with  his  left  hand,  hit  a  supposed 
enemy  a  violent  blow  with  his  right,  shook  his  head  smartly, 
and  recovered  himself. 

''  Come,  master,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  Is  it  to  be  gammon 
or  pluck  ?      Which?" 

''Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "your  expressions  arf 
coarse,  and  your  m.eaningis  obscure." 


796  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  Why,  then,  I  tell  you  what,  master,"  said  the  Chicken, 
''  This  is  where  it  is.     It's  mean." 

"  What  is  mean.  Chicken  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Toots. 

"//is,"  said  the  Chicken,  with  a  frightful  corrugation  of 
his  broken"  nose.  *'  There  !  Now,  master  !  Wot  !  Wen 
you  could  go  and  blow  on  this  here  match  to  the  stiff  'un  ;  " 
by  which  depreciatory  appellation  it  has  been  since  supposed 
that  the  game  one  intended  to  signify  Mr.  Dombey  ;  "  and 
wen  you  could  knock  the  winner  and  all  the  kit  of  'em  dead 
out  o'  wind  and  time,  are  you  going  to  give  in  ?  To  gi7>e 
in?"  said  the  Chicken,  with  contemptuous  emphasis. 
"  Wy,  it's  mean  !  " 

"  Chicken,"  said  Mr.  Toots  severely,  "  you're  a  perfect 
vulture  !     Your  sentiments  are  atrocious."' 

"  My  sentiments  is  game  and  fancy,  master,"  returned  the 
Chicken.  "  That's  wot  my  sentiments  is.  I  can't  abear  a 
meanness.  I'm  afore  the  public,  I'm  to  be  heerd  on  at  the 
bar  of  the  Little  Helephant,  and  no  gov'ner  o'  mine  mustn't 
go  and  do  what's  mean.  Wy,  it's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken, 
with  increased  expression.  "  That's  where  it  is.  It's 
mean." 

"  Chicken  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  "you  disgust  me." 

"  Master,"  returned  the  Chicken,  putting  on  his  hat, 
"  there's  a  pair  on  us,  then.  Come  !  Here's  a  offer  !  You've 
spoke  to  me  more  than  once't  or  twice't  about  the  public 
line.  Never  mind  !  Give  me  a  fi'typun-note  to-morrow, 
and  let  me  go." 

"  Chicken,"  returned  Mr.  Toots,  "  after  the  odious  senti- 
ments you  have  expressed,  I  shall  be  glad  to  part  on  such 
terms." 

"  Done  then,"  said  the  Chicken.  "  It's  a  bargain.  This 
here  conduct  of  yourn  won't  suit  my  book,  master.  Wy, 
it's  mean,"  said  the  Chicken  ;  who  seemed  equally  unable  to 
get  beyond  that  point  and  to  stop  short  of  it.  "  That's 
where  it  is  ;  it's  mean  !  " 

So  Mr.  Toots  and  the  Chicken  agreed  to  part  on  this 
incompatibility  of  moral  perception  ;  and  Mr.  Toots  lying 
down  to  sleep,  dreamed  happily  of  Florence,  who  had  thought 
of  him  as  her  friend  upon  the  last  night  of  her  maiden  life, 
and  who  had  sent  him  her  dear  love. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  797 

CHAPTER  LVII. 

ANOTHER     WEDDING. 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle,  and  Mrs.  Miff,  the  pew-opener, 
are  early  at  their  posts  in  the  fine  church  where  Mr.  Dom- 
bey  was  married.  A  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  from.  India 
is  going  to  take  unto  himself  a  young  wife  this  morning  and 
six  carriages  full  of  company  are  expected,  and  Mrs.  Miff 
has  been  informed  that  the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  could 
pave  the  road  to  the  church  with  diamonds  and  hardly  miss 
them.  The  nuptial  benediction  is  to  be  a  superior  one,  pro- 
ceeding from  a  very  reverend,  a  dean,  and  the  lady  is  to  be 
given  away,  as  an  extraordinary  present,  by  somebody  who 
comes  express  from  the  horse  guards. 

Mrs.  Miff  is  more  intolerant  of  common  people  this  morn- 
ing than  she  generally  is  ;  and  she  has  always  strong  opin- 
ions on  this  subject,  for  it  is  associated  with  free  sittings. 
Mrs.  Miff  is  not  a  student  of  political  economy  (she  thinks 
the  science  is  connected  with  dissenters  ;  "  Baptists  or  Wes- 
leyans,  or  some  o'  them,"  she  says),  but  she  can  never  under- 
stand what  business  your  common  folks  have  to  be  married. 

"Drat  'em,"  says  Mrs.  Miff,  "you  read  the  same  things 
over  'em,  and  instead  of  sovereigns  get  sixpences  !  " 

Mr.  Sownds  the  beadle  is  more  liberal  than  Mrs.  ^Miff — 
but  then  he  is  not  a  pew-opener.  "  It  must  be  done, 
ma'am,"  he  says.  We  must  marry  'em.  "We  must  have  our 
national  schools  to  walk  at  the  head  of,  and  we  must  have 
our  standing  armies.  We  must  marry  'em,  ma'am,"  says  Mr. 
Sownds,  "  and  keep  the  country  going." 

Mr.  Sowmds  is  sitting  on  the  steps,  and  }vlrs.  Miff  is  dust- 
ing in  the  church,  when  a  young  couple,  plainly  dressed, 
come  in.  The  mortified  bonnet  of  Mrs.  Miff  is  sharply 
turned  toward  them,  for  she  espies  in  this  early  visit,  indica- 
tions of  a  runaway  match.  But  they  don't  want  to  be  mar- 
ried— "  Only,"  says  the  gentleman,  "  to  M^alk  round  the 
church."  And  as  he  slips  a  genteel  compliment  into  the 
palm  of  Mrs.  Miff,  her  vinegary  face  relaxes,  and  her  mor- 
tified bonnet  and  her  spare  dry  figure  dip  and  crackle. 

Mrs.  Miff  resumes  her  dusting  and  plumps  up  her  cush- 
ions—for the  yellow-faced  old  gentleman  is  reported  to  have 
tender  knees — but  keeps  her  glazed,  pew-openihg  eye  on  the 
young  couple  who  are  walking  round  the  church.     "  Ahem," 


798  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

coughs  Mrs.  Miff,  whose  cough  is  drier  than  the  hay  in  any  has» 
sock  in  her  charge,  "  you'll  come  to  us  one  of  these  mornings, 
my  dears,  unless  I'm  much  mistaken  !  "  They  are  looking  at 
a  tablet  on  the  wall,  erected  to  the  memory  of  some  one  dead. 
They  are  a  long  way  off  from.  Mrs.  Miff,  but  Mrs.  Miff  can 
see  with  half  an  eye  how  she  is  leaning  on  his  arm,  and  how 
his  head  is  bent  down  over  her.  "  Well,  well,"  says  Mrs. 
Miff,  "  you  might  do  worse.     For  you're  a  tidy  pair  !  " 

There  is  nothing  personal  in  Mrs.  Miff's  remark.  She 
merely  speaks  of  stock  in  trade.  She  is  hardly  more  curious 
in  couples  than  in  coffins.  She  is  such  a  spare,  straight,  dry 
old  lady — such  a  pew  of  a  woman — that  you  should  find  as 
many  individual  sympathies  in  a  chip.  Mr.  Sownds,  now, 
who  is  fleshy,  and  has  scarlet  in  his  coat,  is  of  a  different 
temperament.  He  says,  as  they  stand  upon  the  steps  watch- 
ing the  young  couple  away,  that  she  has  a  pretty  figure, 
hasn't  she,  and  as  well  as  he  could  see  (for  she  held  her 
head  down  coming  out),  an  uncommon  pretty  face.  **  Alto- 
gether, Mrs.  Miff,"  says  Mr.  Sownds,  with  a  relish,  '*  she  is 
what  you  may  call  a  rosebud." 

Mrs.  Miff  assents  with  a  spare  nod  of  her  mortified  bon- 
net ;  but  approves  of  this  so  little,  that  she  inwardly  resolves 
she  wouldn't  be  the  wife  of  Mr.  Sownds  for  any  money  he 
could  give  her,  beadle  as  he  is.. 

And  what  are  the  young  couple  saying  as  they  leave  the 
church,  and  go  out  at  the  gate  ? 

'^  Dear  Walter,  thank  you  !     I  can  go  away,  now,  happy." 

"  And  when  we  come  back,  Florence,  we  will  come  and 
see  his  grave  again." 

Florence  lifts  her  eyes,  so  bright  with  tears,  to  his  kind 
face,  and  clasps  her  disengaged  hand  on  that  other  modest 
little  hand  which  clasps  his  arm. 

''  It  is  very  early,  Walter,  and  the  streets  are  almost  empty 
yet.     Let  us  walk." 

"  But  you  will  be  so  tired,  my  love." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  was  very  tired  the  first  time  that  we  ever 
walked  together,  but  I  shall  not  be  so  to-day." 

And  thus — not  much  changed — she,  as  innocent  and  earn- 
est-hearted— he,  as  frank,  as  hopeful,  and  more  proud  of 
her — Florence  and  Walter,  on  their  bridal  morning,  walk 
through  the  streets  together. 

Not  even  in  that  childish  walk  of  long  ago  were  they  so 
far  removed  from  all  the  world  about  them  as  to-day.  The 
childish  feet  of  long  a^o  did  not  tread  such  enchanted  ground 


DOIMBEY  AND  SON.  799 

as  theirs  do  now.  The  confidence  and  love  of  children  may 
be  given  many  times,  and  will  spring  up  in  many  places  ; 
but  the  woman's  heart  of  Florence,  with  its  undivided  treas- 
ure, can  be  yielded  only  once,  and  under  slight  or  change 
can  only  droop  and  die. 

They  take  the  streets  that  are  the  quietest,  and  do  not 
go  near  that  in  which  her  old  home  stands.  It  is  a  fair, 
warm  summer  morning,  and  the  sun  shines  on  them  as  they 
walk  toward  the  darkening  mist  that  overspreads  the  city. 
Riches  are  uncovering  in  shops  ;  jewels,  gold  and  silver  flash 
in  the  goldsmith's  sunny  windows  ;  and  great  houses  cast  a 
stately  shade  upon  them  as  they  pass.  But  through  the  light, 
and  through  the  shade,  they  go  on  lovingly  together,  lost  to 
every  thing  around  ;  thinking  of  no  other  riches,  and  no 
prouder  home,  than  they  have  now  in  one  another. 

Gradually  they  come  into  the  darker,  narrower  streets, 
where  the  sun,  now  yellow,  and  now  red,  is  seen  through 
the  mist,  only  at  street  corners,  and  in  small  open  spaces 
where  there  is  a  tree,  or  one  of  the  innumerable  churches,  or 
a  paved  way  and  a  flight  of  steps,  or  a  curious  little  patch  of 
garden,  or  a  burying-ground,  where  the  few  tombs  and 
tombstones  are  almost  black.  Lovingly  and  trustfully, 
through  all  the  narrow  yards  and  alleys  and  the  shady 
streets,  Florence  goes,  clinging  to  his  arm,  to  be  his  wife. 

Her  heart  beats  quicker  now,  for  Walter  tells  her  that 
their  church  is  very  near.  They  pass  a  few  great  stacks 
of  warehouses,  with  wagons  at  the  doors,  and  busy  carmen 
stopping  up  the  way — but  Florence  does  not  see  or  hear 
them — and  then  the  air  is  quiet,  and  the  day  is  darkened, 
and  she  is  trembling  in  a  church  which  has  a  strange  smell 
like  a  cellar. 

The  shabby  little  old  man,  ringer  of  the  disappointed  bell, 
is  standing  in  the  porch,  and  has  put  his  hat  in  the  font — 
for  he  is  quite  at  home  there,  being  sexton.  He  ushers  them 
into  an  old  brown,  paneled,  dusty  vestry,  like  a  corner  cup- 
board with  the  shelves  taken  out  ;  vrhere  the  wormy  regis- 
ters diffuse  a  smell  like  faded  snuff,  which  has  set  the  tear- 
ful Nipper  sneezing. 

Youthful,  and  how  beautiful,  the  young  bride  looks,  in 
this  old  dusty  place,  with  no  kindred  object  near  her  but 
her  husband.  There  is  a  dusty  old  clerk,  who  keeps  a  sort 
of  evaporated  news-shop  underneath  an  archway  opposite, 
behind  a  perfect  fortification  of  posts.  There  is  a  dusty  old 
pew-opener  who  only  keeps  herself,  and  finds   that   quite 


8oo  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

enough  to  do.  There  is  a  dusty  old  beadle  (these  are  Mr. 
Toots's  beadle  and  pew-opener  of  last  Sunday),  who  has 
something  to  do  with  the  worshipful  company  who  have  got 
a  hall  in  the  next  yard,  with  a  stained  glass  window  in  it, 
that  no  mortal  ever  saw.  There  are  dusty  wooden  ledges 
and  cornices  poked  in  and  out  over  the  altar,  and  over  the 
screen  and  round  the  gallery,  and  over  the  inscription  about 
what  the  master  and  wardens  of  the  worshipful  company 
did  in  one  thousand  six  hundred  and  ninety-four.  There 
are  dusty  old  sounding-boards  over  the  pulpit  and  read- 
ing-desk, looking  like  lids  to  be  let  down  on  the  officiating 
ministers,  in  case  of  their  giving  offense.  There  is  every 
possible  provision  for  the  accommodation  of  dust,  except  in 
the  church-yard,  where  the  facilities  in  that  respect  are  very 
limited. 

The  captain.  Uncle  Sol,  and  Mr.  Toots  are  come  ;  the 
clergyman  is  putting  on  his  surplice  in  the  vestry,  while  the 
clerk  walks  round  him,  blowing  the  dust  off  it  ;  and  the 
bride  and  bridegroom  stand  before  the  altar.  There  is  no 
bridesmaid,  unless  Susan  Nipper  is  one  ;  and  no  better 
father  than  Captain  Cuttle.  A  man  with  a  wooden  leg, 
chewing  a  faint  apple  and  carrying  a  blue  bag  in  his  hand, 
looks  in  to  see  what  is  going  on  ;  but  finding  it  nothing 
entertaining,  stumps  off  again,  and  pegs  his  way  among  the 
echoes  out-of-doors. 

No  gracious  ray  of  light  is  seen  to  fall  on  Florence,  kneel- 
ing at  the  altar  with  her  timid  head  bowed  down.  The 
morning  luminary  is  built  out,  and  don't  shine  there.  There 
is  a  meager  tree  outside,  where  the  sparrows  are  chirping  a 
little  ;  and  there  is  a  blackbird  in  an  eyelet-hole  of  sun  in  a 
dyer's  garret,  over  against  the  window,  who  whistles  loudly 
while  the  service  is  performing  ;  and  there  is  the  man  with 
the  wooden  leg  stumping  away.  The  amens  of  the  dusty 
clerk  appear,  like  Macbeth 's,  to  stick  in  his  throat  a  little  ; 
but  Captain  Cuttle  helps  him  out,  and  does  it  with  so  much 
good-will  that  he  interpolates  three  entirely  new  responses 
of  that  word  never  introduced  into  the  service  before. 

They  are  married,  and  have  signed  their  names  in  one  of 
the  old  sneezy  registers,  and  the  clergyman's  surplice  is 
restored  to  the  dust,  and  the  clergyman  is  gone  home.  In  a 
dark  corner  of  the  dark  church  Florence  has  turned  to  Susan 
Nipper,  and  is  weeping  in  her  arms.  Mr.  Toots's  eyes  are 
red.  The  captain  lubricates  his  nose.  Uncle  Sol  has  pulled 
down  his  spectacles  from  his  forehead,  and  walked  out  to  the 
door. 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  8oi 

''God  bless  you,  Susan;  dearest  Susan!  If  you  ever  can 
bear  witness  to  the  love  I  have  for  Walter,  and  the  reason 
that  I  have  to  love  him,  do  it  for  his  sake.  Good-by' 
Good-by!" 

They  have  thought  it  better  not  to  go  back  to  the  mid- 
shipman, but  to  part  so;  a  coach  is  waiting  for  them  near  at 
hand. 

Miss  Nipper  can  not  speak;  she  only  sobs  and  chokes,  and 
hugs  her  mistress.  Mr.  Toots  advances,  urges  her  to  cheer 
up,  and  takes  charge  of  her.  Florence  gives  him  her  hand — 
gives  him,  in  the  fullness  of  her  heart,  her  lips — kisses  Uncle 
Sol  and  Captain  Cuttle,  and  is  borne  away  by  her  young 
husband. 

But  Susan  can  not  bear  that  Florence  should  go  away 
with  a  mournful  recollection  of  her.  She  had  meant  to  be 
so  different,  that  she  reproaches  herself  bitterly.  Intent  on 
making  one  last  effort  to  redeem  her  character,  she  breaks 
from  Mr.  Toots  and  runs  away  to  find  the  coach,  and  show 
a  parting  smile.  The  captain,  divining  her  object,  sets  off 
after  her;  for  he  feels  it  his  duty  also  to  dismiss  them  with 
a  cheer,  if  possible.  Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  are  left 
behind  together,  outside  the  church,  to  wait  for  them. 

The  coach  is  gone,  but  the  street  is  steep,  and  narrow, 
and  blocked  up,  and  Susan  can  see  it  at  a  standstill  in  the 
distance,  she  is  sure.  Captain  Cuttle  follows  her  as  she  flies 
down  the  hill,  and  waves  his  hat  as  a  general  signal,  which 
may  attract  the  right  coach  and  which  may  not. 

Susan  outstrips  the  captain,  and  comes  up  with  it.  She 
looks  in  at  the  window,  sees  Walter,  with  the  gentle  face 
beside  him,  and  clasps  her  hands  and  screams: 

"  Miss  Floy,  my  darling!  look  at  me!  We  are  all  so 
happy  now,  dear!  One  more  good-by,  my  precious,  one 
more!  " 

How  Susan  does  it,  she  don't  know,  but  she  reaches  to  the 
window,  kisses  her,  and  has  her  arms  about  her  neck  in  a 
moment. 

"  We  are  all  so — so  happy  now,  my  dear  Miss  Floy!  "  says 
Susan,  with  a  suspicious  catching  in  her  breath.  "You — 
you  won't  be  angry  with  me  now.     Now  will  you  ?  " 

"  Angry,  Susan  ?  " 

"No,  no;  I  am  sure  you  won't.  I  say  you  won't,  my  pet, 
my  dearest!"  exclaims  Susan;  "and  here's  the  captain, 
too — your  friend,  the  captain,  you  know — to  say  good-by 
once  more!  " 


go2  DOMBEY  AND  SO^f. 

"  Hooroar,  my  Heart's  Delight!  "  vociferates  the  captain, 
with  a  countenance  of  strong  emotion.  "  Hooroar,  Wal'r, 
my  lad.     Hooroar!     Hooroar! " 

What  with  the  young  husband  at  one  window,  and  the 
young  wife  at  the  other;  the  captain  hanging  on  at  this 
door,  and  Susan  Nipper  holding  fast  by  that;  the  coach 
obliged  to  go  on  whether  it  will  or  no,  and  all  the  other  carts 
and  coaches  turbulent  because  it  hesitates;  there  never  was 
so  much  confusion  on  four  wheels.  But  Susan  Nipper  gal- 
lantly maintains  her  point.  She  keeps  a  smiling  face  upon 
her  mistress,  smiling  through  her  tears,  until  the  last.  Even 
when  she  is  left  behind,  the  captain  continues  to  appear  and 
disappear  at  the  door,  crying:  Hooroar,  my  lad!  Hooroar, 
my  Heart's  Delight!  "  with  his  shirt-collar  in  a  violent  state 
of  agitation,  until  it  is  hopeless  to  attempt  to  keep  up  with 
the  coach  any  longer.  Finally,  when  the  coach  is  gone, 
Susan  Nipper,  being  rejoined  by  the  captain,  falls  into  a 
state  of  insensibility,  and  is  taken  into  a  baker's  shop  to 
recover. 

Uncle  Sol  and  Mr.  Toots  wait  patiently  in  the  church- 
yard, sitting  on  the  coping-stone  of  the  railings,  until  Cap- 
tain Cuttle  and  Susan  come  back.  Neither  being  at  all 
desirous  to  speak,  or  to  be  spoken  to,  they  are  excellent 
company,  and  quite  satisfied.  When  they  all  arrive  again 
at  the  little  midshipman,  and  sit  down  to  breakfast,  nobody 
can  touch  a  morsel.  Captain  Cuttle  makes  a  feint  of  being 
voracious  about  toast,  but  gives  it  up  as  a  swindle.  Mr. 
Toots  says,  after  breakfast,  he  will  come  back  in  the  even- 
ing, and  goes  wandering  about  the  town  all  day,  Avith  a 
vague  sensation  upon  him  as  if  he  hadn't  been  to  bed  for  a 
fortnight. 

There  is  a  strange  charm  in  the  house,  and  in  the  room, 
in  which  they  have  been  used  to  be  together,  and  out  of 
which  so  much  is  gone.  It  aggravates,  and  yet  it  soothes, 
the  sorrow  of  the  separation.  Mr.  Toots  tells  Susan  Nipper 
when  he  comes  at  night,  that  he  hasn't  been  so  wretched  all 
day  long,  and  yet  he  likes  it.  He  confides  in  Susan  Nipper, 
being  alone  with  her,  and  tells  her  what  his  feelings  were 
when  she  gave  him  that  candid  opinion  as  to  the  probabil- 
ity of  Miss  Dombey's  ever  loving  him.  In  the  vein  of  con- 
fidence engendered  by  these  common  recollections,  and 
their  tears,  Mr.  Toots  proposes  that  they  shall  go  out 
together  and  buy  something  for  supper.  Miss  Nipper 
assenting,  they  buy  a  good  many  little   things  ;    and,    with 


DOM  BEY   AND   SON.  803 

the  aid  of  Txlrs.  Richcards,  set  the  supper  out  quite  showily 
before  the  captain  and  Old  Sol  came  home. 

The  captain  and  Old  Sol  have  been  on  board  the  ship, 
and  have  established  Di  there,  and  have  see  the  chests  put 
aboard.  They  have  much  to  tell  about  the  popularity  of 
Walter,  and  the  comforts  he  will  have  about  him,  and  the 
quiet  way  in  which  it  seems  he  has  been  working  early  and 
late,  to  make  his  cabin  what  the  captain  calls  "  a  picter,"  to 
surprise  his  little  wife.  "A  admiral's  cabin,  mind  you," 
says  the  captain,  "  ain't  more  trim." 

But  one  of  the  captain's  chief  delights  is,  that  he  knows 
the  big  watch,  and  the  sugar-tongs,  and  tea-spoons,  are  on 
board  ;  and  again  and  again  he  murmurs  to  himself,  "  Ed'ard 
Cuttle,  my  lad,  you  never  shaped  a  better  course  in  your  life 
than  when  you  made  that  there  little  property  over  jintly. 
You  see  how  the  land  bore,  Ed'ard,"  says  the  captain,  "  and 
it  does  you  credit,  my  lad." 

The  old  instrument-niaker  is  more  distraught  and  misty 
than  he  used  to  be,  and  takes  the  marriage  and  the  parting  very 
much  to  heart.  But  he  is  greatly  comforted  by  having  his 
old  ally,  Ned  Cuttle,  at  his  side  ;  and  he  sits  down  to  sup- 
per with  a  grateful  and  contented  face; 

^' My  boy  has  been  preserved,  and  thrives,"  say  old  Sol 
Gills,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  What  right  have  I  to  be  other- 
wise than  thankful  and  happy  !  " 

The  captain,  Avho  has  not  yet  taken  his  seat  at  the  table, 
but  v.'ho  has  been  fidgeting  about  for  some  time,  and 
now  stands  hesitating  in  his  place,  looks  doubtfully  at  Mr. 
Gills,  and  says  : 

"  Sol !  There's  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  ^Madeira  down 
below.  Would  you  wish  to  have  it  up  to-night,  my  boy,  and 
drink  to  Wal'r  and  his  wife  ? " 

The  instrument-maker,  looking  wistfully  at  the  captain, 
put  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coffee-colored 
coat,  brings  forth  his  pocket-book,  and  takes  a  letter 
out. 

"  To  Mr.  Dombey,"  says  the  old  man.  "  From  Walter. 
To  be  sent  in  three  weeks'  time.     I'll  read  it." 

'*  '  Sir.  I  am  married  to  your  daughter.  She  is  gone 
with  me  upon  a  distant  voyage.  To  be  devoted  to  her  is 
to  have  no  claim  on  her  or  you,  but  God  knows  that  I 
am. 

''  *  Why,  loving  her  beyond  all  earthly  things,  I  have 
yet,  without  remorse,   united  her  to  the  uncertainties  and 


8o4  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

dangers  of  my  life,  I  will  not  say  to   you.     You  know  why, 
and  you  are  her  father. 

"  '  Do  not  reproach  her.  She  has  never  reproached 
you. 

"  *  I  do  not  think  or  hope  that  you  will  ever  forgive  me. 
There  is  nothing  I  expect  less.  But  if  an  hour  should  come 
when  it  will  comfort  you  to  believe  that  Florence  had  some 
one  ever  near  her,  the  great  charge  of  whose  life  is  to  cancel 
her  remembrance  of  past  sorrow,  I  solemnly  assure  you,  yo  u 
may,  in  that  hour,  rest  in  that  belief.'  " 

Solomon  puts  back  the  letter  carefully  in  his 
pocket-book,  and  puts  back  his  pocket-book  in  his 
coat. 

"  We  won't  drink  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira 
yet,  Ned,"  says  the  old  man, 'thoughtfully.  "Not 
yet." 

"  Not  yet,"  assents  the  captain.     "  No.     Not  yet." 

Susan  and  Mr.  Toots  are  of  the  same  opinion.  After  a 
silence,  they  all  sit  down  to  supper,  and  drink  to  the  young 
husband  and  wife  in  something  else  ;  and  the  last  bottle  of 
the  old  Madeira  still  remains  among  its  dust  and  cobwebs 
undisturbed. 

A  few  days  have  elapsed,  and  a  stately  ship  is  out  at  sea, 
spreading  its  white  wings  to  the  favoring  wind. 

Upon  the  deck,  image  to  the  roughest  man  on  board  of 
something  that  is  graceful,  beautiful,  and  harmless — some^ 
thing  that  is  good  and  pleasant  to  have  there,  and  that 
should  make  the  voyage  prosperous — is  Florence.  It  is 
night,  and  she  and  Walter  sit  alone,  watching  the  solemn 
path  of  light  upon  the  sea  between  them  and  the  moon. 

At  length  she  can  not  see  it  plainly,  for  the  tears  that  fill 
her  eyes  ;  and  then  she  lays  her  head  down  on  his  breas'^ 
and  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck,  saying,  "  Oh,  Walter, 
dearest  love,  I  am  so  happy  !  " 

Her  husband  holds  her  to  his  heart,  and  they  are  very 
quiet,  and  the  stately  ship  goes  on  serenely. 

"As  I  hear  the  sea,"  says  Florence,  "and  sit  watching  it, 
it  brings  so  many  days  into  my  mind.  It  makes  me  think 
so  much — " 

"  Of  Paul,  my  love.     I  know  it  does." 

Of  Paul  and  Walter.  And  the  voices  in  the  waves  are 
always  whispering  to  Florence,  in  their  ceaseless  murmuring, 
of  love — of  love,  eternal  and  illimitable,  not  bounded  by  iho 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  805 

confines  of  this  world,  or  by  the  end  of  time,  but  ranging 
still,  beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sky,  to  the  invisible  country 
far  away  ! 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

AFTER    A    LAPSE. 

The  sea  had  ebbed  and  flowed  through  a  whole  year. 
Through  a  whole  year,  the  winds  and  clouds  had  come  and 
gone  ;  the  ceaseless  work  of  time  had  been  performed  in 
storm  and  sunshine.  Through  a  whole  year,  the  tides  of 
human  chance  and  change  had  set  in  their  allotted  courses. 
Through  a  whole  year,  the  famous  house  of  Dombey  and 
Son  had  fought  a  fight  for  life,  against  cross  accidents, 
doubtful  rumors,  unsuccessful  ventures,  unpropitious  times, 
and,  most  of  all,  against  the  infatuation  of  its  head,  vrhc 
would  not  contract  its  enterprises  by  a  hair's-breadth,  ana 
would  not  listen  to  a  word  of  warning  that  the  ship  he 
strained  so  hard  against  the  storm  was  weak,  and  could  not 
bear  it. 

The  year  was  out,  and  the  great  house  was  down. 

One  summer  afternoon — a  year,  wanting  some  odd  days, 
after  the  marriage  in  the  city  church — there  was  a  buzz  and 
whisper  upon  'change  of  a  great  failure.  A  certain  cold 
proud  man,  well  known  there,  was  not  there,  nor  was  he 
represented  there.  Next  day  it  was  noised  abroad  that 
Dombey  and  Son  had  stopped,  and  next  night  there  was  a 
list  of  bankrupts  published,  headed  by  that  name. 

The  world  was  very  busy  now,  in  sooth,  and  had  a  deal  to 
say.  It  was  an  innocently  credulous  and  a  much  ill-used 
world.  It  was  a  world  in  which  there  was  no  other  sort  of 
bankruptcy  whatever.  There  were  no  conspicuous  people 
in  it,  trading  far  and  wide  on  rotten  banks  of  religion,  patri- 
otism, virtue,  honor.  There  was  no  amiount  worth  mention- 
ing of  mere  paper  in  circulation,  on  which  any  body  lived 
pretty  handsomely,  promising  to  pay  great  sums  of  goodness 
with  no  effects.  There  were  no  short-comings  anywhere, 
in  any  thing  but  money.  The  world  was  very  angry  indeed; 
and  the  people  especially,  who,  in  a  worse  world,  might 
have  been  supposed  to  be  bankrupt  traders  themselves  in 
shows  and  pretenses,  were  observed  to  be  mightily  indig- 
nant. 

Here  was  a  new  inducement  to  dissipation,  presented  to 


8o6  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

that  sport  of  circumstances,  Mr.  .Perch  the  messenger  !  ^  It 
was  apparently  the  fate  of  Mr.  Perch  to  be  always  waking 
up,  and  finding  himself  famous.     He  had  but  yesterday,  as 
one  might  say,  subsided  into  private  life  from  the  celebrity 
of  the  elopement  and  the  events  that  followed  it ;  and  now 
he  was  made  a  more  important  man  than  ever  by  the  bank- 
ruptcy.    Gliding  from  his  bracket  in  the  outer  office  where 
he  now  sat,  watching  the  strange  faces  of  accountants  and 
others,  who  quickly  superseded  nearly  all  the  old  clerks,  Mr. 
Perch  had  but  to  show  himself  in   the  court  outside,  or,  at 
furthest,  in  the  bar  of  the  King's  Arms,  to  be  asked  a  multi- 
tude of  questions,  almost  certain  to  include  that  interesting 
question,  what  would   he  take  to  drink  ?     Then  would  Mr. 
Perch  descant  upon  the  hours  of  acute  uneasiness  he  and 
Mrs.  Perch  had  suffered  out  at  Ball's  Pond,  when  they  first 
suspected   "  things  was   going   wrong."      Then  would  Mr. 
Perch   relate   to   gaping  listeners,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  the 
corpse  of  the  deceased  house  was  lying  unburied  in  the  next 
room,  how  Mrs.  Perch  had  first  come  to  surmise  that  things 
was  going  wrong  by  hearing  him  (Perch)  moaning  in  his  sleep, 
"  twelve-and-ninepence  in  the  pound,   twelve-and-ninepence 
in  the  pound  !  "     Which  act  of  somnam.bulism  he  supposed 
to  have  originated  in  the  impression  made  upon  him  by  the 
change  in  Mr.  Dombey's  face.     Then  would  he  inform  them 
how  he  had  once  said,  "  Might  I   make   so  bold  as  ask,  sir, 
are  you  unhappy  in  your  mind  ?  "  and  how  Mr.  Dombey  had 
replied,  "  My  faithful  Perch — but  no,   it  can  not  be  !  "  and 
with  that  had  struck  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  and  said, 
"  Leave  me.  Perch  I  "     Then,  in  short,  would  Mr.  Perch,  a 
victim  to  his  position,  tell  all  manner  of  lies  ;  affecting  him- 
self to  tears  by  those  that  were  of  a  moving  nature,  and  really 
believing  that  the  inventions  of  yesterday  had,  on  repetition, 
a  sort  of  truth  about  them  to-day. 

Mr.  Perch  always  closed  these  conferences  by  meekly 
remarking  that,  of  course,  whatever  his  suspicions  might 
have  been  (as  if  he  ever  had  any  !)  it  wasn't  for  him  to  be- 
tray his  trust,  was  it  ?  Which  sentiment  (there  never  being 
any  creditors  present)  was  received  as  doing  great  honor  to 
his  feelings.  Thus  he  generally  brought  away  a  soothed 
conscience,  and  left  an  agreeable  impression  behind  him, 
when  he  returned  to  his  bracket  ;  again  to  sit  watching  the 
strange  faces  of  the  accountants  and  others,  making  so  free 
with  the  great  mysteries,  the  books  ;  or  now  and  then  to  go 
on  tiptoe  into  Mr.  Dombey's  empty  room  and  stir  the  fire  ; 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  807 

or  to  take  an  ainng  at  the  door,  and  have  a  little  more  dole- 
ful chat  with  any  straggler  whom  he  knew  ;  or  to  propitiate, 
with  various  small  attentions,  the  head  accountant  ;  from 
whom  Mr.  Perch  had  expectations  of  a  messengership  in  a 
fire  office,  when  the  affairs  of  the  house  should  be  wound 
up. 

To  Major  Bagstock  the  bankruptcy  was  quite  a  calamity. 
The  major  was  not  a  sympathetic  character — his  attention 
being  wholly  concentrated  on  J.  B. — nor  was  he  a  man  sub- 
ject to  lively  emotions,  except  in  the  physical  regards  of 
gasping  and  choking.  But  he  had  so  paraded  his  friend 
Dombey  at  the  club  ;  had  so  flourished  him  at  the  heads 
of  the  members  in  general,  and  so  put  them  down  by 
continual  assertion  of  his  riches  ;  that  the  club,  being 
but  human,  was  delighted  to  retort  upon  the  major, 
by  asking  him,  with  a  show  of  great  concern,  whether 
this  tremendous  smash  had  been  at  all  expected,  and 
how  his  friend  Dombey  bore  it.  To  such  questions 
the  major,  waxing  very  purple,  would  reply  that  it 
was  a  bad  world,  sir,  altogether  ;  that  Joey  knew  a  thing  or 
two,  but  had  been  done,  sir,  done  like  an  infant  ;  that  if  you 
had  foretold  this,  sir,  to  J.  Bagstock,  when  he  went  abroad 
with  Dombey,  and  was  chasing  that  vagabond  up  and  down 
France,  J.  Bagstock  would  have  pooh-pooh'd  you — would 
have  pooh-pooh'd  you,  sir,  by  the  Lord  !  That  Joe  had 
been  deceived,  sir,  taken  in,  hoodwinked,  blindfolded,  but 
w^as  broad  awake  again  and  staring  ;  insomuch,  sir,  that  if 
Joe's  father  were  to  rise  up  from  the  grave  to-morrow^,  he 
v/ouldn't  trust  the  old  blade  with  a  penny-piece,  but  would 
tell  him  that  his  son  Josh  was  too  old  a  soldier  to  be  done 
again,  sir.  That  he  was  a  suspicious,  crabbed,  cranky, 
used-up  J.  B.  infidel,  sir  ;  and  that  if  it  were  consistent 
with  the  dignity  of  a  rough  and  tough  old  major  of  the 
old  school,  who  had  had  the  honor  of  being  personally 
known  to,  and  commended  by,  their  late  Royal  Highnesses 
the  Dukes  of  Kent  and  York,  to  retire  to  a  tub  and  live  in  it, 
by  Gad  !  sir,  he'd  have  a  tub  in  Pail-Mall  to-morrow,  to 
show  his  contempt  for  mankind  ! 

Of  all  this,  and  many  variations  of  the  same  tune,  the 
major  would  deliver  himself  with  so  many  apoplectic  symp- 
toms, such  rollings  of  his  head,  and  such  violent  growls  of 
ill-usage  and  resentment,  that  the  younger  members  of  the 
club  surmised  he  had  invested  money  in  his  friend  Dom- 
bey's    house,    and  lost  it  ;    though  the  older  soldiers   and 


8oS  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

deeper  dogs,  who  knew  Joe  better,  wouldn't  hear  of  such  a 
thing.  The  unfortunate  native,  expressnig  no  opinion, 
suffered  dreadfully  ;  not  merely  in  his  moral  feelings,  which 
were  regularly  fusilladed  by  the  major  every  hour  in  the  day, 
and  riddled  through  and  through,  but  in  his  sensitiveness  to 
bodily  knocks  and  bumps,  which  was  kept  continually  on 
the  stretch.  For  six  entire  weeks  after  the  bankruptcy  this 
miserable  foreigner  lived  in  a  rainy  season  of  boot-jacks  and 
brushes. 

Mrs.  Chick  had  three  ideas  upon  the  subject  of  the  ter- 
rible reverse.  The  first?  was  that  she  could  not  understand 
it.  The  second,  that  her  brother  had  not  made  an  effort. 
The  third,  that  if  she  had  been  invited  to  dinner  on  the  day 
of  that  first  party,  it  never  would  have  happened  ;  and  that 
she  had  said  so  at  the  time. 

Nobody's  opinion  stayed  the  misfortune,  lightened  it,  or 
made  it  heavier.  It  was  understood  that  the  affairs  of  the 
house  were  to  be  wound  up  as  they  best  could  be  ;  that  Mr. 
Dombey  freely  resigned  every  thing  he  had,  and  asked  for 
no  favor  from  any  one.  That  any  resumption  of  the  busi- 
ness was  out  of  the  question,  as  he  would  listen  to  no  friendly 
negotiation  having  that  compromise  in  view  ;  that  he  had 
relinquished  every  post  of  trust  or  distinction  he  had  held, 
as  a  man  respected  among  merchants  ;  that  he  was  dying, 
according  to  some  ;  that  he  was  going  melancholy  mad, 
according  to  others  ;  that  he  was  a  broken  man,  according 
to  all. 

The  clerks  dispersed  after  holding  a  little  dinner  of  con- 
dolence  among  themselves,  which  was  enlivened  by  comic 
singing,  and  went  off  admirably.  Some  took  places  abroad, 
and  some  engaged  in  other  houses  at  home  ;  some  looked 
up  relations  in  the  country,  for  whom  they  suddenly  remem- 
bered they  had  a  particular  affection  ;  and  some  advertised 
for  employment  in  the  newspapers.  Mr.  Perch  alone 
remained  of  all  the  late  establishment,  sitting  on  his  bracket 
looking  at  the  accountants,  or  starting  off  it,  to 
propitiate  the  head  who  was  to  get  him  into  the  fire 
office.  The  counting  house  soon  got  to  be  dirty  and  neg- 
lected. The  principal  slipper  and  dogs'-collar  seller,  at  the 
corner  of  the  court,  would  have  doubted  the  propriety  of 
throwing  up  liis  forefinger  to  the  brim  of  his  hat  any  more,  if 
Mr.  Dombey  had  appeared  there  now  ;  and  the  ticket- por- 
ter, with  his  hands  under  his  white  apron,  moralized  good 
sound  morality  about  ambition,  which  (he  observed)  was 


DOMBEY   AND    SOX.  809 

not,  in  his  opinion,  made  to  rhyme  to  perdition  for   noth- 
ing. 

Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  with  the  hair  and 
whiskers  sprinkled  with  gray,  was  perhaps  the  only  person 
within  the  atmosphere  of  the  house — its  head,  of  course, 
excepted — who  was  heartily  and  deeply  affected  by  the 
disaster  that  had  befallen  it.  He  had  treated  Mr.  Dombey 
with  due  respect  and  deference  through  many  years,  but  he 
had  never  disguised  his  natural  character,  or  meanly  truckled 
to  him,  or  pampered  his  master  passion  for  the  advance- 
ment of  his  own  purposes.  He  had,  therefore,  no  self- 
disrespect  to  avenge  ;  no  long-tightened  springs  to  release 
with  a  quick  recoil.  He  worked  early  and  late  to  unravel 
whatever  was  complicated  or  difficult  in  the  records  of  the 
transactions  of  the  house  ;  was  always  in  attendance  to 
explain  whatever  required  explanation  ;  sat  in  his  old  room 
sometimes  very  late  at  night,  studying  points  by  his  mastery 
of  which  he  could  spare  Mr.  Dombey  the  pain  of  being 
personally  referred  to  ;  and  then  would  go  home  to  Islington, 
and  calm  his  mind  by  producing  the  most  dismal  and  forlorn 
sounds  out  of  his  violoncello  before  going  to  bed. 

He  was  solacing  himself  with  this  melodious  grumbler 
one  evening,  and,  having  been  much  dispirited  by  the  pro- 
ceedings of  the  day,  was  scraping  consolation  out  of  its 
deepest  notes,  when  his  landlady  (who  was  fortunately  deaf, 
and  had  no  other  consciousness  of  these  performances  than 
a  sensation  of  something  rumbling  in  her  bones)  announced 
a  lady 

"In  mourning,"  she  said. 

The  violoncello  stopped  immediately  ;  and  the  performer, 
laying  it  on  the  sofa  with  great  tenderness  and  care,  made 
a  sign  that  the  lady  was  to  come  in.  He  followed  directly, 
and  met  Harriet  Carker  on  the  stair. 

"  Alone  !  "  he  said,  "  and  John  here  this  morning  !  Is 
there  any  thing  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  But  no,"  he  added, 
"  your  face  tells  quite  another  story." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  selfish  revelation  that  you.  see  there 
then,"  she  answered. 

"It  is  a  very  pleasant  one,"  said  he  ;  "and  if  selfish,  a 
novelty  too,  worth  seeing  in  you.  But  I  don't  believe 
that." 

He  had  placed  a  chair  for  her  by  this  time,  and  sat  down 
opposite,  the  violoncello  lying  snugly  on  the  sofa  between 
them. 


8io  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

**  You  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  coming  alone,  or  at 
John's  not  having  told  you  I  was  coming,"  said  Harriet  ; 
"  and  you  will  believe  that  when  I  tell  you  why  I  have 
come.     May  I  do  so  now  ?  " 

*' You  can  do  nothing  better." 

"  You  were  not  busy  ?  " 

He  pointed  to  the  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa,  and  said, 
"  I  have  been,  all  day.  Here's  my  witness.  I  have  been 
confiding  all  my  cares  to  it.  I  wish  I  had  none  but  my  own 
to  tell." 

"  Is  the  house  at  an  end  ?  "  said  Harriet,  earnestly. 

"  Completely  at  an  end." 

''  Will  it  never  be  resumed  ?  " 

"  Never." 

The  bright  expression  of  her  face  was  not  overshadowed 
as  her  lips  silently  repeated  the  word.  He  seemed  to 
observe  this  with  some  little  involuntary  surprise,  and  said 
again  : 

''  Never,  You  remember  what  I  told  you.  It  has  been 
all  along,  impossible  to  convince  him  ;  impossible  to  rea- 
son with  him  ;  sometimes  impossible  even  to  approach  him. 
The  worst  has  happened  ;  and  the  house  has  fallen,  never 
to  be  built  ap  any  more." 

"  And  Mr.  Dombey,  is  he  personally  ruined  ?  " 

"  Ruined," 

"  Will  have  no  private  fortune  left  ?     Nothing  ?  " 

A  certain  eagerness  in  her  voice,  and  something  that  was 
almost  joyful  in  her  look,  seemed  to  surprise  him  more  and 
more  ;  to  disappoint  him  too,  and  jar  discordantly  against 
his  own  emotions.  He  drummed  with  the  fingers  of  one 
hand  on  the  table,  looking  wistfully  at  her,  and  shaking 
his  head,  said   after  a  pause  : 

"  The  extent  of  Mr.  Dombey's  resources  is  not  accuratelv 
within  my  knowledge  ;  but  though  they  are  doubtless  very 
large,  his  obligations  are  enormous.  He  is  a  gentleman  of 
high  honor  and  integrity.  Any  man  in  his  position  could, 
and  many^  man  in  his  position  would,  have  saved  himself, 
by  making  terms  which  would  have  very  slightly,  almost 
insensibly,  increased  the  losses  of  those  who  had  had  deal- 
ings with  him,  and  left  him  a  remnant  to  live  upon.  But  he 
is  resolved  on  payment  to  the  last  farthing  of  his  means. 
His  own  words  are,  that  they  will  clear,  or  nearly  clear  the 
house,  and  that  no  one  can  lose  much.  Ah,  Miss  Harriet, 
it  would  do  us  no  harm  to  remember  oftener  than  we  do  that 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  8ii 

vices  are  sometimes  only   virtues  carried  to    excess  !     His 
pride  shows  well  in  this." 

She  heard  him  with  little  or  no  change  in  her  expression, 
and  with  a  divided  attention  that  showed  her  to  be  busy  with 
something  in  her  own  mind.  When  he  was  silent  she  asked 
him  hurriedly  : 

"  Have  you  seen  him  lately  ?  " 

"  No  one  sees  him.  When  this  crisis  of  his  affairs  ren- 
ders it  necessary  for  him  to  come  out  of  his  house,  he  comes 
out  for  the  occasion,  and  again  goes  home,  and  shuts  him- 
self up,  and  will  see  no  one.  He  has  written  me  a  letter, 
acknowledging  our  past  connection  in  higher  terms  than  it 
deserved,  and  parting  from  me.  I  am  delicate  of  obtrud- 
ing myself  upon  him  now,  never  having  had  much  intercourse 
with  him  in  better  times  ;  but  I  have  tried  to  do  so.  I  have 
written,  gone  there,  entreated.     Quite  in  vain." 

He  watched  her,  as  in  the  hope  that  she  would  testify 
some  greater  concern  than  she  had  yet  shown  ;  and  spoke 
gravely  and  feelingly,  as  if  to  im.press  her  more  ;  but  there 
was  no  change  in  her. 

''  Well,  well.  Miss  Harriet,"  he  said,  with  a  disappointed 
air,  "  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  You  have  not  come  here  to 
hear  this.  Some  other  and  pleasanter  theme  is  in  your  mind. 
Let  it  be  in  mine  too,  and  we  shall  talk  upon  more  equal 
terms.     Come  !  " 

"  No,  it  is  the  same  theme,"  returned  Harriet,  with  frank 
and  quick  surprise.  '"'  Is  it  not  likely  that  it  should  be  ?  Is 
it  not  natural  that  John  and  I  should  have  been  thinking  and 
speaking  very  much  of  late  of  these  great  changes  ?  Mr. 
Dombey,  whom  he  served  so  many  years — you  know  upon 
what  teVms — reduced,  as  you  describe  ;  and  we  quite  rich  !  ' 

Good,  true  face,  as  that  face  of  hers  was,  and  pleasant  as 
it  had  been  to  him,  Mr.  Morfin,  the  hazel-eyed  batchelor, 
since  the  first  time  he  had  ever  looked  upon  it,  it  pleased 
him  less  at  that  moment,  lighted  with  a  ray  of  exultation, 
than  it  had  ever  pleased  him  before. 

''I  need  not  remind  you,"  said  Harriet,  casting  down  her 
eyes  upon  her  black  dress,  "  through  what  means  our  circum- 
stances changed.  You  have  not  forgotten  that  our  brother 
James,  upon  that  dreadful  day  left  no  will,  no  relations  but 
ourselves." 

The  face  was  pleasanter,  to  him  now,  though  it  was  pale, 
and  melancholy,  than  it  had  been  a  moment  since.  He 
seemed  to  breath  more  cheerily. 


8i2  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

"  You  know,"  she  said,  "  our  history,  the  history  of  both 
my  brothers,  in  connection  with  the  unfortunate,  unhappy 
gentleman  of  whom  you  have  spoken  so  truly.  You  know 
how  few  our  wants  are — John's  and  mine — and  what  little 
use  we  have  for  money,  after  the  life  we  have  led  together 
for  so  many  years  ;  and  now  that  he  is  earning  an  income 
that  is  ample  for  us,  through  your  kindness.  You  are  not 
unprepared  to  hear  what  favor  I  have  come  to  ask  of 
you." 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  was,  a  minute  ago.  Now,  I  think  I 
am  not." 

"  Of  my  dead  brother  I  say  nothing.  If  the  dead  know 
what  we  do — but  you  understand  me.  Of  my  living  brother 
I  could  say  much  ;  but  what  need  I  say  more,  than  that  this 
act  of  duty,  in  which  I  have  come  to  ask  your  indispensable 
assistance,  is  his  own,  and  that  he  can  not  rest  until  it  is  pei- 
formed." 

She  raised  her  eyes  again  ;  and  the  light  of  exultation  in 
her  face  began  to  appear  beautiful,  in  the  observant  eyes 
that  watched  her. 

"  Dear  sir,"  she  went  on  to  say,  "  it  must  be  done  very 
quietly  and  secretly.  Your  experience  and  knowledge  will 
point  out  a  way  of  doing  it.  Mr.  Dombey  may,  perhaps,  be 
led  to  believe  that  it  was  something  saved,  unexpectedly, 
from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes,  or  that  it  is  a  voluntary 
tribute  to  his  honorable  and  upright  character,  from  some  of 
those  with  whom  he  has  had  great  dealings,  or  that  it  is 
some  old  lost  debt  repaid.  There  must  be  many  ways  of 
doing  it.  I  know  you  will  choose  the  best.  The  favor  I 
have  come  to  ask  is,  that  you  will  do  it  for  us  in  your  own, 
kind,  generous,  considerate,  manner.  That  you  will  never 
speak  of  it  to  John,  whose  chief  happiness  in  this  act  of 
restitution  is  to  do  it  secretly,  unknown,  and  unapproved 
of  ;  that  only  a  very  small  part  of  the  inheritance  may  be 
reserved  to  us,  until  Mr.  Dombey  shall  have  possessed  the 
interest  of  the  rest  for  the  remainder  of  his  life  ;  that  you 
will  keep  our  secret  faithfully — but  that  I  am  sure  you 
will ;  and  that  from  this  time  it  may  seldom  be  whispered, 
even  between  you  and  me,  but  may  live  in  my  thoughts  is 
only  as  a  new  reason  for  thankfulness  to  heaven,  and  joy  and 
pride  in  my  brother." 

Such  a  look  of  exultation  there  may  be  on  angels*  faces, 
when  the  one  repentant  sinner  enters  heaven,  among  ninety- 
nine  just  men.     It  was  not  dimmed  or  tarnished  by   the 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  813 

joyful  tears  that  filled  her  eyes,  but  was  the  brighter  for 
them. 

"  My  dear  Harriet,"  said  Mr.  Morfin,  after  a  silence,  "  I 
was  not  prepared  for  this.  Do  I  understand  you  that  you 
wish  to  make  your  own  part  in  the  inheritance  available  for 
your  good  purpose,  as  well  as  John's  ?" 

''  Oh  yes,"  she  returned.  "  When  we  have  shared  every 
thing  together  for  so  long  a  time,  and  have  had  no  care, 
hope,  or  purpose  apart,  could  I  bear  to  be  excluded  from 
my  share  in  this  ?  May  I  not  urge  a  claim  to  be  my 
brother's  partner  and  companion  to  the  last  ?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  dispute  it  !  "  he  replied. 

"  We  may  rely  on  your  friendly  help  ? "  she  said.  "  I 
knew  we  might  !  " 

"  1  should  be  a  worse  man  than — than  I  hope  I  am,  or 
would  willingly  believe  myself,  if  I  could  not  give  you  that 
assurance  from  my  heart  and  soul.  You  may,  implicitly. 
Upon  my  honor,  I  will  keep  your  secret.  And  if  it  should  be 
found  that  Mr.  Dombey  is  so  reduced  as  I  fear  he  will  be, 
acting  on  a  determination  that  there  seem  to  be  no  means 
of  influencing,  I  will  assist  you  to  accomplish  the  design  on 
which  you  and  John  are  jointly  resolved." 

She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  thanked  him  with  a  cordial, 
happy  face. 

*'  Harriet,"  he  said,  detaining  it  in  his.  "  To  speak  to 
you  of  the  worth  of  any  sacrifice  that  you  can  make  now — 
above  all,  of  any  sacrifice  of  mere  money — would  be  idle 
and  presumptuous.  To  put  before  you  any  appeal  to 
reconsider  your  purpose  or  to  set  narrow  limits  to  it,  would 
be,  I  feel,  not  less  so.  I  have  no  right  to  mar  the  great 
end  of  a  great  history  by  any  obtrusion  of  my  own  weak 
self.  I  have  every  right  to  bend  my  head  before  what  you 
confide  to  me,  satisfied  that  it  comes  from  a  higher  and 
better  source  of  inspiration  than  my  poor  worldly  knowledge. 
I  will  say  only  this  :  I  am  your  faithful  steward  ;  and  I 
would  rather  be  so,  and  your  chosen  friend,  than  I  would 
be  any  body  in  the  world,  except  yourself." 

She  thanked  him  again  cordially,  and  wished  him  good- 
night. 

"Are  you  going  home?"  he  said.  ''Let  me  go  with 
you." 

*'  Not  to  night.  I  am  not  going  home  now  ;  1  have  a 
visit  to  make  alone.     Will  you  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

*'  Well,   well/'  said  he,  '"  I'll  come  to-morrow.     In  m 


8i4  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

meantime,  I'll  think  of  this,  and  how  we  can  best  proceed. 
And  perhaps  you  II  think  of  it,  dear  Harriet,  and — and — 
think  of  me  a  little  in  connection  with  it." 

He  handed  her  down  to  a  coach  she  had  in  waiting  at 
the  door  ;  and  if  his  landlady  had  not  been  deaf,  she  would 
have  heard  him  muttering  as  he  went  back  uprstairs,  when 
the  coach  had  driven  off,  that  we  were  creatures  of  habit, 
and  it  was  a  sorrowful  habit  to  be  an  old  bachelor. 

The  violoncello  lying  on  the  sofa  betv/een  the  two  chairs, 
he  took  it  up,  \vithout  putting  away  the  vacant  chair,  and 
sat  droning  on  it,  and  slowly  shaking  his  head  at  the  vacant 
chair  for  a  long,  long  time.  The  expression  he  com- 
municated to  the  instrument  at  first,  though  monstrously 
pathetic  and  bland,  was  nothing  to  the  expression  he  com- 
municated to  his  own  face,  and  bestowed  upon  the  empty 
chair  ;  which  was  so  sincere,  that  he  w^as  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  Captain  Cuttle's  remedy  more  than  once,  and  to 
rub  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  By  degrees,  however,  the 
violoncello,  in  unison  with  his  own  frame  of  mind,  glided 
melodiously  into  the  "  Harmonious  Blacksmith,"  which  he 
played  over  and  over  again,  until  his  ruddy  and  serene  face 
gleamed  like  true  metal  on  the  anvil  of  a  veritable  black- 
smith. In  fine,  the  violoncello  and  the  empty  chair  were 
the  companions  of  his  bachelorhood  until  nearly  midnight  ; 
and  when  he  took  his  supper,  the  violoncello  set  up  on  end 
in  the  sofa  corner,  big  with  the  latent  harmony  of  a  whole 
foundry  full  of  harmonious  blacksmiths,  seemed  to  ogle  the 
empty  chair  out  of  its  crooked  eyes,  with  unutterable  intel- 
ligence. 

When  Harriet  left  the  house,  the  driver  of  her  hired 
coach,  taking  a  course  that  was  evidently  no  new  one  to 
him,  went  in  and  out  by  by-ways,  through  that  part  of  the 
suburbs,  until  he  arrived  at  some  open  ground,  where  there 
were  a  few  quiet  little  old  houses  standing  among  gardens. 
At  the  garden-gate  of  one  of  these  he  stopped,  and  Harriet 
alighted. 

Her  gentle  ringing  at  the  bell  was  responded  to  by  a 
dolorous-looking  woman  of  light  complexion,  with  raised 
eyebrows,  and  head  drooping  on  one  side,  who  courtesied  at 
sight  of  her,  and  conducted  her  across  the  garden  to  the 
house. 

*'  How  is  your  patient,  nurse,  to-night  ? "  said  Harriet. 

"  In  a  poor  way,  miss,  I  am  afraid.  Oh,  how  she  do 
remind  me,  sometimes,  of  my  uncle's  Betsey  Jane  I  "  returned 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  815 

the  woman  of  the  Hght  complexion,  in  a  sort  of  doleful 
rapture. 

"  In  what  respect  ?  "  asked  Harriet. 

"  Miss,  in  all  respects,"  replied  the  other,  "  except  that 
she's  grown  up,  and  Betsey  Jane,  when  at  death's  door,  was 
but  a  child." 

''  But  you  have  told  me  she  recovered,"  observed  Harriet, 
mildly  ;  "  so  there  is  the  more  reason  for  hope,  Mrs. 
Wickam." 

"  Ah,  miss,  hope  is  an  excellent  thing  for  such  as  has  the 
spirits  to  bear  it  !  "  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  shaking  her  head. 
"My  own  spirits  is  not  equal  to  it,  but  I  don't  owe  it  any 
grudge.     I  envys  them  that  is  so  blest !  " 

"  You  should  try  to  be  more  cheerful,"  remarked  Harriet. 

*'  Thank  you,  miss,  I'm  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wickam,  grimly, 
"  If  I  was  so  inclined,  the  loneliness  of  this  situation — you'll 
excuse  my  speaking  so  free — would  put  it  out  of  my  power 
in  four-and-twenty  hours  ;  but  I  ain't  at  all.  I'd  rather  not. 
The  little  spirits  that  I  ever  had,  I  was  bereaved  of  at 
Brighton  some  few  years  ago,  and  I  think  I  feel  myself  the 
better  for  it." 

In  truth,  this  was  the  very  Mrs.  Wickam  who  had  super- 
seded Mrs.  Richards  as  the  nurse  of  little  Paul,  and  who 
considered  herself  to  have  gained  the  loss  in  question,  under 
the  roof  of  the  amiable  Pipchin.  The  excellent  and  thought- 
ful old  system,  hallowed  by  long  piescription,  which  has 
usually  picked  out  from  the  rest  of  mankind  the  most  dreary 
and  uncomfortable  people  that  could  possibly  be  laid  hold 
of,  to  act  as  instructors  of  youth,  finger-posts  to  the  virtues, 
matrons,  monitors,  attendants  on  sick-beds,  and  the  like, 
had  established  JNlrs.  Wickham  in  very  good  business  as  a 
nurse,  and  had  led  to  her  serious  qualities  being  particularly 
commended  by  an  admiring  and  numerous  connection. 

Mrs.  Wickam,  with  her  eyebrows  elevated,  and  her  head 
on  one  side,  lighted  the  way  up-stairs  to  a  clean,  neat  cham- 
ber, opening  on  another  chamber  dimly  lighted,  where  there 
was  a  bed.  In  the  first  room,  an  old  woman  sat  mechan- 
ically staring  out  at  the  open  window,  on  the  darkness.  In 
the  second,  stretched  upon  the  bed,  lay  the  shadow  of  a 
figure  that  had  spurned  the  wind  and  rain,  one  wintry  night ;: 
hardly  to  be  recognized  now,  but  by  the  long  black  hair  that 
showed  so  very  black  against  the  colorless  face,  and  all  the 
white  things  about  it. 

Oh,  the  strong  eyes,  and  the  weak  frame  !  The  eyes  that 


8i6  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

turned  so  eagerly  and  brightly  to  the  door  when  Harriet 
came  in  ;  the  feeble  head  that  could  not  raise  itself,  and 
moved  so  slowly  round  upon  its  pillow  ! 

"  Alice  !  "  said  the  visitor's  mild  voice,  "  am  I  late  to- 
night ?  " 

"You  always  seem  late,  but  are  always  early." 

Harriet  had  sat  down  by  the  bedside  now,  and  put  her 
hand  upon  the  thin  hand  lying  there. 

'*  You  are  better  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wickam,  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  like  a  dis- 
consolate specter,  most  decidedly  and  forcibly  shook  her 
head  to  negative  this  position. 

"  It  matters  very  little  !  "  said  Alice,  with  a  faint  smile. 
"  Better  or  worse  to-day,  is  but  a  day's  difference — per- 
haps, not  so  much." 

Mrs.  Wickam,  as  a  serious  character,  expressed  her 
approval  with  a  groan  ;  and  having  made  some  cold  dabs  at 
the  bottom  of  the  bed-clothes,  as  feeling  for  the  patient's 
feet  and  expecting  to  find  them  stony,  went  clinking  among 
the  medicine  bottles  on  the  table,  as  who  should  say,  "  while 
we  are  here,  let  us  repeat  the  mixture  as  before." 

"  No,"  said  Alice,  whispering  to  her  visitor,  '*  evil  courses, 
and  remorse,  travel,  want,  and  weather,  storm  within,  and 
storm  without,  have  worn  my  life  away.  It  will  not  last 
much  longer." 

She- drew  the  hand  up  as  she  spoke,  and  laid  her  face 
against  it. 

"  I  lie  here,  sometimes,  thinking  I  should  like  to  live  until 
I  had  had  a  little  time  to  show  you  how  grateful  I  couFd  be  ! 
It  is  a  weakness,  and  soon  passes.  Better  for  you  as  it  is. 
Better  for  me  !  " 

How  different  her  hold  upon  the  hand,  from  what  it  had 
been  when  she  took  it  by  the  fireside  on  the  bleak  winter 
evening  !  Scorn,  rage,  defiance,  recklessness,  look  here  ! 
This  is  the  end. 

Mrs.  Wickam  having  clinked  sufficiently  among  the  bot- 
tles, now  produced  the  mixture.  Mrs.  Wickam  looked  hard 
at  her  pr.tient  in  the  act  of  drinking,  screwed  her  mouth  up 
tight,  her  eyebrows  also,  and  shook  her  head,  expressing 
that  tortures  shouldn't  make  her  say  it  was  a  hopeless  case. 
Mrs.  Wickam  then  sprinkled  a  little  cooling-stuff  about  the 
room,  with  the  air  of  a  female  grave-digger  who  was  strew- 
ing ashes  on  ashes,  dust  on  dust — for  she  was  a  serious  char- 
acter— and  withdrew  to  partake  of  certain  funeral  baked 
meats  down-stairs. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  817 

"  How  long  is  it,"  asked  Alice,  ''  since  I  went  to  you  and 
told  you  what  I  had  done,  and  when  you  were  advised  it 
was  too  late  for  any  one  to  follow  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  year  and  more,"  said  Harriet. 

"  A  year  and  more,"  said  Alice,  thoughtfully  intent  upon 
her  face.  "  Months  upon  months  since  you  brought  me 
here  ! " 

Harriet  answered  "  Yes." 

'*  Brought  me  here,  by  force  of  gentleness  and  kindness. 
Me  !  "  said  Alice,  shrinking,  with  her  face  behind  the  hand, 
"  and  made  me  human  by  woman's  looks  and  words,  and 
angel's  deeds  !  " 

Harriet  bending  over  her,  composed  and  soothed  her. 
By-and-by,  Alice  lying  as  before,  with  the  hand  against  her 
face,  asked  to  have  her  mother  called. 

Harriet  called  to  her  more  than  once,  but  the  old  woman 
was  so  absorbed  looking  out  at  the  open  window  on  the 
darkness,  that  she  did  not  hear.  It  was  not  until  Harriet 
went  to  her  and  touched  her,  that  she  rose  up  and  came. 

'*  Mother,"  said  Alice,  taking  the  hand  again,  and  fixing 
her  lustrous  eyes  lovingly  upon  her  visitor,  while  she  merely 
addressed  a  motion  of  her  hnger  to  the  old  woman,  "  tell  her 
what  you  know." 

^'  To-night,  my  deary  ?" 

**  Ay,  mother,"  answered  Alice,  faintly  and  solemnly, 
"  to-night  !  " 

The  old  woman,  whose  wits  appeared  disordered  by  alarm, 
remorse,  or  grief,  came  creeping  along  the  side  of  the  bed, 
opposite  to  that  on  which  Harriet  sat  ;  and  kneeling  down, 
so  as  to  bring  her  withered  face  upon  a  level  with  the  cover- 
let, and  stretching  out  her  hand  so  as  to  touch  her  daugh- 
ter's arm,  began  : 

"  My  handsome  gal — " 

Heaven  !  what  a  cry  was  that,  with  which  she  stopped 
there,  gazing  at  the  poor  form  lying  on  the  bed  ! 

"  Changed  long  ago,  mother  !  Withered  long  ago,"  said 
Alice,  without  looking  at  her.     "  Don't  grieve  for  that  now." 

— "My  daughter,"  faltered  the  old  woman,  "my  gal, 
who'll  soon  get  better,  and  shame  'em  all  with  her  good 
looks." 

Alice  smiled  mournfully  at  Harriet,  and  fondled  her  hand 
a  little  closer,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Who'll  soon  get  better,  I  say,"  repeated  the  old  woman, 
menacing  the  vacant  air  with  her  shriveled  fist,  "  and  who'll 


8i8  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

shame  'em  all  with  her  good  looks — she  will.  I  say  she  will ! 
she  shall  !  " — as  if  she  were  in  passionate  contention  with 
some  unseen  opponent  at  the  bedside  who  contradicted  her 
— "  my  daughter  has  been  turned  away-  from  and  cast  out, 
but  she  could  boast  relationship  to  proud  folks  too,  if  she 
chose.  Ah  !  To  proud  folks  !  There's  relationship  with- 
out your  clergy  and  your  wedding-rings — they  may  make  it, 
but  they  can't  break  it — and  my  daughter's  well  related. 
Show  me  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  I'll  show  you  my  Alice's  first 
cousin." 

Harriet  glanced  from  the  old  woman  to  the  lustrous  eyes 
intent  upon  her  face,  and  derived  corroboration  from  them. 

"  What !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  her  nodding  head  bridling 
with  a  ghastly  vanity  ;  "  though  I  am  old  and  ugly  now — 
much  older  by  life  and  habit  than  years,  though — I  was  once 
young  as  any.  Ah  !  as  pretty,  too,  as  many  !  I  was  a  fresh 
country  wench  in  my  time,  darling,"  stretching  out  her  arm 
to  Harriet  across  the  bed,  "  and  looked  it,  too.  Down  in 
my  country,  Mrs.  Dombey's  father  and  his  brother  were  the 
gayest  gentlemen  and  the  best  liked  that  came  a-visiting 
from  London — they  have  long  been  dead,  though  !  Lord, 
Lord,  this  long  while  !  The  brother,  who  was  my  Ally's 
father,  longest  of  the  two." 

She  raised  her  head  a  little,  and  peered  at  her  daughter's 
face  ;  as  if  from  the  remembrance  of  her  own  youth  she  had 
flown  to  the  remembrance  of  her  child's.  Then,  suddenly, 
she  laid  her  face  down  on  the  bed,  and  shut  her  head  up  in 
her  hands  and  arms.  _ 

"  They  were  as  like,"  said  the  old  woman,  without  looking 
up,  "  as  you  could  see  two  brothers,  so  near  an  age — there 
wasn't  much  more  than  a  year  between  them,  as  I  recollect 
— and  if  you  could  have  seen  my  gal,  as  I  have  seen  her 
once,  side  by  side  with  the  other's  daughter,  you'd  have 
seen,  for  all  the  difference  of  dress  and  life,  that  they  were 
like  each  other.  Oh  !  is  the  likeness  gone,  and  is  it  my  gal 
— only  my  gal — that's  to  change  so  !  " 

*'  We  shall  all  change,  mother,  in  our  turn,"  said  Alice. 

"  Turn  !  "  cried  the  old  woman,  "  but  why  not  hers  as  soon 
as  my  gal's  !  The  mother  must  have  changed — she  looked 
as  old  as  me,  and  full  of  wrinkles  through  her  paint — but  s^e 
was  handsome.  What  have  /  done,  I,  what  have  /  done 
worse  than  her,  that  only  my  gal  is  to  lie  there  fading  !  " 

With  another  one  of  those  wild  cries,  she  went  running 
out  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  come  ;  but  immedi- 


DOMBEV  AND  SON.     .  819 

ately,  in  her  uncertain  mood,  returned,  and  creeping  up  to 
Harriet,  said  : 

"  That's  what  Alice  bade  me  tell  you,  deary.  That's  all. 
I  found  it  out  when  I  began  to  ask  who  she  was,  and  all 
about  her,  away  in  Warwickshire  there,  one  summer-time. 
Such  relations  was  no  good  to  me,  then.  They  wouldn't 
have  owned  me,  and  had  nothing  to  give  me.  I  should  have 
asked  'em,  may  be,  for  a  little  money  afterward,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  my  Alice  ;  she'd  a'most  have  killed  me  if  I  had,  I 
think.  She  was  as  proud  as  t'other  in  her  way,"  said  the 
old  woman,  touching  the  face  of  her  daughter  fearfully,  and 
withdrawing  her  hand,  "  for  all  she's  so  quiet  now  ;  but  she'll 
shame  'em  with  her  good  looks  yet.  Ha,  ha  !  She  II  shame 
'em,  will  my  handsome  daughter  !  " 

Her  laugh,  as  she  retreated,  was  worse  than  her  cry  ; 
worse  than  the  burst  of  imbecile  lamentation  in  which  it 
ended  ;  worse  than  the  doting  air  with  which  she  sat  down 
in  her  old  seat,  and  stared  out  at  the  darkness. 

The  eyes  of  Alice  had  all  this  time  been  fixed  on  Harriet, 
whose  hand  she  had  never  released.     She  said  now  : 

"  I  have  felt,  lying  here,  that  I  should  like  you  to  know 
this.  It  might  explain,  I  have  thought,  something  that 
used  to  help  to  harden  me.  I  had  heard  so  much,  in  my 
wTong-doing,  of  my  neglected  duty,  that  I  took  up  with  the 
belief  that  duty  had  not  been  done  to  me,  and  that  as  the 
seed  was  sown  the  harvest  grew,  I  somehow  made  it  out 
that  when  ladies  had  bad  homes  and  mothers,  they  went 
wrong  in  their  way,  too  ;  but  that  their  way  was  not  so  foul 
an  one  as  mine,  and  they  had  need  to  bless  God  for  it. 
That  is  all  past.  It  is  like  a  dream,  now,  which  I  can  not 
quite  remember  or  understand.  It  has  been  more  and  more 
like  a  dream,  every  day,  since  you  began  to  sit  here  and  to 
read  to  me.  I  only  tell  it  you,  as  I  can  recollect  it.  Will 
you  read  to  me  a  little  more  ?  " 

Harriet  was  withdrawing  her  hand  to  open  the  book,  when 
Alice  detained  it  for  a  moment. 

"  You  will  not  forget  my  mother  ?  I  forgive  her,  if  I  have 
any  cause.  I  know  that  she  forgives  me,  and  is  sorry  in  her 
heart.     You  will  not  forget  her  ? " 

"  Never,  Alice  !  " 

"  A  moment  yet.  Lay  my  head  so,  dear,  that  as  you  read 
I  may  see  the  words  in  your  kind  face." 

Harriet  complied  and  read — read  the  eternal  book  for  all 
the  weary  and  the  heavy-laden  ;  for  ail  the  wretched,  fallen. 


S20  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

and  neglected  of  this  earth — read  the  blessed  history,  in 
which  the  blind,  lame,  palsied  beggar,  the  criminal,  the 
woman  stained  with  shame,  the  shunned  of  all  our  dainty 
clay,  has  each  a  portion,  that  no  human  pride,  indifference, 
or  sophistry,  through  all  the  ages  that  this  world  shall  last, 
can  take  away,  or  by  the  thousandth  atom  of  a  grain  reduce 
— read  the  ministry  of  Him  who,  through  the  round  of 
human  life,  and  all  its  hopes  and  griefs,  from  birth  to  death, 
from  infancy  to  age,  had  sweet  compassion  for,  and  interest 
in,  its  every  scene  and  stage,  its  every  suffering  and  sorrow. 

"  I  shall,  come,"  said  Harriet,  when  she  shut  the  book, 
"very  early  in  the  morning." 

The  lustrous  eyes,  yet  fixed  upon  her  face,  closed  for  a 
moment,  then  opened  ;  and  Alice  kissed  and  blessed  her. 

The  same  eyes  followed  her  to  the  door  ;  and  in  their 
light,  and  on  the  tranquil  face,  there  was  a  smile  when  it  was 
closed. 

They  never  turned  away.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
breast,  murmuring  the  sacred  name  that  had  been  read  to  her, 
and  life  passed  from  her  face,  like  light  removed. 

Nothing  lay  there,  any  longer,  but  the  ruin  of  the  mortal 
house  on  which  the  rain  had  beaten,  and  the  black  hair  that 
had  fluttered  in  the  wintry  wind. 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Changes  have  come  again  upon  the  great  house  in  the 
long  dull  street,  once  .the  scene  of  Florence's  childhood  and 
loneliness.  It  is  a  great  house  still,  proof  against  wind  and 
weather,  without  breaches  in  the  roof,  or  shattered  windows, 
or  dilapidated  walls  ;  but  it  is  a  ruin  none  the  less,  and  the 
rats  fly  from  it. 

Mr.  Towlinson  and  company  are,  at  the  first,  incredulous 
in  respect  of  the  shapeless  rumors  that  they  hear.  Cook 
says  our  people's  credit  ain't  so  easy  shook  as  that  comes  to, 
thank  God  ;  and  Mr.  Towlinson  expects  to  hear  it  reported 
that  the  Bank  of  England's  agoing  to  break,  or  the  jewels  in 
the  tower  to  be  sold  up.  But  next  come  the  Gazette^  and 
Mr.  Perch  :  and  Mr.  Perch  brings  Mrs.  Perch  to  talk  it  over 
in  the  kitchen,  and  to  spend  a  pleasant  evening. 

As  soon  as  there  is  no  doubt  about  it,  Mr.  Towlinson's  main 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  S21 

mxiety  is  that  the  failure  should  be  a  good  round  one — not 
less  than  a  hundred  thousand  pound.  Mr.  Perch  don't 
think  himself  that  a  hundred  thousand  pound  will  nearly 
cover  it.  The  women  led  by  Mrs.  Perch  and  cook,  often 
repeat  "  a  hun-dred  thou-sand  pound  !  "  with  awful  satisfac- 
tion— as  if  handling  the  words  were  like  handling  the  money  ; 
and  the  housemaid,  who  has  her  eye  on  Mr.  Towlinson, 
wishes  she  had  only  a  hundredth  part  of  the  sum  to  bestow 
on  the  man  of  her  choice.  Mr.  Towlinson,  still  mindful  of  his 
old  wrong,  opines  that  a  foreigner  would  hardly  know  what  to 
do  with  so  much  money,  unless  he  spent  it  on  his  whiskers  ; 
which  bitter  sarcasm  causes  the  housemaid  to  withdraw  in 
tears. 

But  not  to  remain  long   absent  ;  for  cook,  who  has  the 
reputation  of  being  extremely  good-hearted,  says,   whatever 
they   do,  let  'em   stand  by  one  another  now,  Towlinson,  foi 
there's  no    telling    how  soon    they  may  be    divided.     They 
have  been  in  that  house   (says  cook),  through   a  funeral,  a 
wedding,  and  a  running  away  ;  and  let  it  not  be  said  that 
they  couldn't  agree  among  themselves  at   such  a  time  as  the 
present.     Mrs.  Perch   is  immensely    affected  by  this  moving 
address,  and  openly  remarks  that  cook  -is  an  angel.     Mr. 
Towlinson  replies  to  cook,  far  be  it  from  him  to  stand  in 
the  way  of  that  good  feeling  which  he  could  wish  to  see  ;  and 
adjourning  in  quest  of  the  housemaid,  and   presently  return- 
ing  with    that  young   lady  on  his  arm,  informs  the  kitchen 
that  foreigners  is  only  his  fun,  and   that  him  and  Anne  have 
now  resolved  to  take  one   another  for  better  for  worse,  and 
to  settle  in  Oxford  market  in  the  general  green  grocery  and 
herb   and    leech   line,  where    your  kind  favors  is  particular 
requested.     This  announcement   is  received   with   acclama- 
tion ;  and    Mrs.  Perch,   projecting   her  soul   into    futurity, 
says,  "  girls,"  in  cook's  ear,  in  a  solemn  whisper. 

Misfortune  in  the  family  without  feasting,  in  these  lower 
regions,  couldn't  be.  Therefore  cook  tosses  up  a  hot  dish 
or  tv/o  for  supper,  and  Mr.  Towlinson  compounds  a  lobster 
salad  to  be  devoted  to  the  same  hospitable  purpose.  Even 
Mrs.  Pipchin,  agitated  by  the  occasion,  rings  her  bell,_  and 
sends  down  word  that  she  requests  to  have  that  little  bit  of 
sweet-bread  that  was  left  warmed  up  for  supper,  and  sent  to 
her  on  a  tray  with  about  a  quarter  of  a  tumblerful  of  mulled 
sherry  ;  for  she  feels  poorly. 

There  is  a  little  talk  about  Mr.  Dombey,  but  very  little. 
It  is  chiefly  speculation   as    to   how   long    he    has    known 


S22  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

that  this  was  going  to  happen.  Cook  says  shrewdly,  **  Oh, 
a  long  time,  bless  you  !  Take  your  oath  of  that." 
And  reference  being  made  to  Mr.  Perch,  he  confirms 
her  view  of  the  case.  Somebody  wonders  what  he'll  do, 
and  whether  he'll  go  out  in  any  situation.  Mr.  Towlinson 
thinks  not,  and  hints  at  a  refuge  in  one  of  them  gen-teel 
alms-houses  of  the  better  kind.  "  Ah,  where  he'll  have  his  lit- 
tle garden,  you  know,"  says  cook,  plaintively,  ^'  and  bring 
up  sweet  peas  in  the  spring."  ''  Exactly  so,"  says  Mr. 
Towlinson,  "  and  be  one  of  the  brethren  of  something  or 
other."  "  We  are  all  brethren,"  says  Mrs.  Perch,  in  a  pause 
of  her  drink.  "  Except  the  sisters,"  says  Mr.  Perch.  "  How 
are  the  mighty  fallen  !  "  remarks  cook.  *'  Pride  shall  have 
a  fall,  and  it  always  was  and  will  be  so  !  "  observes  the  house- 
maid. 

It  is  wonderful  how  good  they  feel  in  making  these  reflec- 
tions ;  and  what  a  Christian  unanimity  they  are  sensible  of 
in  bearing  the  common  shock  with  resignation.  There  is 
only  one  interruption  to  this  excellent  state  of  mind,  which 
is  occasioned  by  a  young  kitchen-maid  of  inferior  rank — in 
black  stockings — who,  having  sat  with  her  mouth  open  for  a 
long  time,  unexpectedly  discharges  from  it  words  to  this 
effect,  *'  Suppose  the  wages  shouldn't  be  paid  !  "  The  com- 
pany sit  for  a  moment  speechless  ;  but  cook  recovering  first, 
turns  upon  the  young  woman,  and  requests  to  know  how  she 
dares  insult  the  family,  whose  bread  she  eats,  by  such  a  dis- 
honest supposition,  and  whether  she  thinks  that  any  body, 
with  a  scrap  of  honor  left,  could  deprive  poor  servants  of 
their  pittance  ?  ''  Because  if  fAa^  is  your  religious  feelings, 
Mary  Daws,"  says  cook,  warmly,  "  I  don't  know  where  you 
mean  to  go  to." 

Mr.  Towlinson  don't  know  either  ;  nor  any  body  ;  and 
the  young  kitchen-maid,  appearing  not  to  know  exactly 
herself,  and  scouted  by  the  general  voice,  is  covered  with 
confusion,  as  with  a  garment. 

After  a  few  days,  strange  people  begin  to  call  at  the  house, 
and  to  make  appointments  with  one  another  in  the  dining- 
room,  as  if  they  lived  there.  Especially,  there  is  a  gentle- 
man, of  a  Mosaic-Arabian  cast  of  countenance,  with  a  very 
massive  watch-guard,  who  whistles  in  the  drawing-room, 
and,  while  he  is  waiting  for  the  other  gentleman,  who  always 
has  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket,  asks  Mr.  Towlinson  (by  the 
easy  name  of  "  Old  Cock  ")  if  he  happens  to  know  what  the 
figure  of  them  crimson  and  gold  hangings  might  have  been 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  823 

when  new  bought.  The  callers  and  appointments  in  the  din- 
ing-room become  more  numerous  every  day,  and  every  gentle- 
man seems  to  have  pen  and  ink  in  his  pocket,  and  to  have 
some  occasion  to  use  it.  At  last  it  is  said  that  there  is  gc^ng 
to  be  a  sale  ;  and  then  more  people  arrive,  with  pen 
and  ink  in  their  pockets,  commanding  a  detachment  of  men 
with  carpet-caps,  who  immediately  begin  to  pull  up  the  car- 
pets, and  knock  the  furniture  about,  and  to  print  off  thou- 
sands of  impressions  of  their  shoes  upon  the  hall  and  stair- 
case. 

The  council  down -stairs  are  in  full  conclave  all  this  tim^e, 
and,  having  nothing  to  do,  perform  perfect  feats  of  eating. 
At  length,  they  are  one  day  summoned  in  a  body  to  Mrs. 
Pipchin's  room,  and  thus  addressed  by  the  fair  Peruvian  : 

"  Your  master's  in  difficulties,"  said  Mrs.  Pipchin,  tartly. 
"  You  know  that,  I  suppose  ? " 

Mr.  Towlinson,  as  spokesman,  admits  a  general  knowledge 
of  the  fact. 

*'  And  you're  all  on  the  lookout  for  yourselves,  I  warrant 
you,"  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  shaking  her  head  at  them. 

A  shrill  voice  from  the  rear  exclaims,  ''  No  more  than 
yourself  !  " 

"  That's  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Impudence,  is  it?"  says  the 
ireful  Pipchin,  looking  with  a  fiery  eye  over  the  intermedi- 
ate heads. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  it  is,"  replies  cook,  advancing. 
**  And  what  then,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  then  you  may  go  as  soon  as  you  like,"  says  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  "  The  sooner  the  better  ;  and  I  hope  I  shall  never 
see  your  face  again." 

With  this  the  doughty  Pipchin  produces  a  canvas  bag  ; 
and  tells  her  wages  out  to  that  day,  and  a  month  beyond  it, 
and  clutches  the  money  tight  until  a  receipt  for  the  same  is 
duly  signed,  to  the  last  up-stroke  ;  when  she  grudgingly  lets 
it  go.  This  form  of  proceeding  Mrs.  Pipchin  repeats  with 
every  member  of  the  household  until  all  are  paid. 

"  Now  those  that  choose  can  go  about  their  business," 
says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  *'  and  those  that  choose  can  stay  here  on 
board  wages  for  a  week  or  so,  and  make  themselves  useful. 
Except,"  say  the  imflammable  Pipchin,  "  that  slut  of  a  cook^ 
who'll  go  immediately." 

*'  That,"  says  cook,  "  she  certainly  will  !  I  wish  you 
good-day,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  sincerely  wish  I  could  compli- 
ment you  on  the  sweetness  of  your  appearance  I  " 


»24  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

"  Get  along  with  you  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  stamping  hei 
foot. 

Cook  sails  off  with  an  air  of  beneficent  dignity,  highly 
exasperating  to  Mrs.  Pipchin,  and  is  shortly  joined  below 
stairs  by  the  rest  of  the  confederation. 

Mr.  Towlinson  then  says  that,  in  the  first  place,  he  would 
beg  to  purpose  a  little  snack  of  something  to  eat  ;  and  over 
that  snack  would  desire  to  offer  a  suggestion  which  he  thinks 
will  meet  the  position  in  which  they  find  themselves.  The 
refreshment  being  produced,  and  very  heartily  partaken  of, 
Mr.  Towlinson's  suggestion  is,  in  effect,  that  cook  is  going, 
and  that  if  we  are  not  true  to  ourselves,  nobody  will  be  true 
to  us.  That  they  have  lived  in  that  house  a  long  time,  and 
exerted  themselves  very  much  to  be  sociable  together.  (At 
this,  cook  says,  with  emotion,  "  Hear,  hear  !  "  and  Mrs. 
Perch,  who  is  there  again,  and  full  to  the  throat,  sheds  tears.) 
And  that  he  thinks,  at  the  present  time,  the  feeling  ought  to 
be  '  Go  one,  go  all  !  '  The  house-maid  is  much  affected  by 
this  generous  sentiment,  and  warmly  seconds  it.  Cook  says 
she  feels  it's  right,  and  only  hope  it's  not  done  as  a  compli- 
ment to  her,  but  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Mr.  Towlinson 
replies,  from  a  sense  of  duty,  and  that  now  he  is  driven  to 
express  his  opinions,  he  will  openly  say,  that  he  does  not 
think  it  over-respectable  to  remain  in  a  house  where  sales 
and  such  like  are  carrying  forward.  The  house-maid  is  sure 
of  it;  and  relates,  in  confirmation,  that  a  strange  man,  in  a 
carpet-cap,  offered  this  very  morning  to  kiss  her  on  the 
stairs.  Hereupon  Mr.  Towlinson  is  starting  from  his  chair, 
to  seek  and  "  smash  "  the  offender  ;  when  he  is  laid  hold  on 
by  the  ladies,  who  beseech  him  to  calm  himself,  and  to  reflect 
that  it  is  easier  and  wiser  to  leave  the  scene  of  such  indecen- 
cies at  once.  Mrs.  Perch,  presenting  the  case  in  a  new  light, 
even  shows  that  delicacy  toward  Mr.  Dombey,  shut  up  in  his 
own  rooms,  imperatively  demands  precipitate  retreat.  "  For 
what,"  says  rhe  good  woman,  '*  must  his  feelings  be,  if  he 
was  to  co.iie  upon  any  of  the  poor  servants  that  he  once 
deceived  into  the  thinking  him  immensely  rich  !"  Cook  is  so 
struck  by  this  moral  consideration  that  Mrs.  Perch  improves 
it  with  several  pious  axioms,  original  and  selected.  It 
becomes  a  clear  case  that  they  must  all  go.  Boxes  are 
packed,  cabs  fetched,  and  at  dusk  that  evening  there  is  not 
one  member  of  the  party  left. 

The  house  stands,  large  and  weather-proof,  in  the  long 
dull  Street :  but  it  is  ^  ruin,  and  the  rats  fly  fronqi  i|:. 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  S25 

The  men  in  tlie  carpet-caps  go  on  tumbling  the  furniture 
about  ;  and  the  gentlemen  with  the  pens  and  ink  make  out 
inventories  of  it,  and  sit  upon  pieces  of  furniture  never 
made  to  be  sat  upon,  and  eat  bread  and  cheese  from  the 
public-house  on  other  pieces  of  furniture  never  made  to  be 
eaten  on,  and  seem  to  have  a  dehght  in  appropriating  pre- 
cious articles  to  strange  uses.  Chaotic  combinations  of  furni- 
ture also  take  place.  Mattresses  and  bedding  appear  in  the 
dining-room  ;  the  glass  and  china  get  into  the  conserva- 
tory ;  the  great  dinner  service  is  set  out  in  heaps  on  the 
long  divan  in  the  large  drawing-room  ;  and  the  stair-wires, 
made  into  fasces,  decorate  the  marble  chimney-pieces. 
Finally,  a  rug,  with  a  printed  bill  upon  it,  is  hung  out  from 
the  balcony  ;  and  a  similar  appendage  graces  either  side  of 
the  hall  door. 

Then  all  day  long,  there  is  a  retinue  of  moldy  gigs  and 
chaise-carts  in  the  street  ;  and  herds  of  shabby  vampires, 
Jew  and  Christian,  overrun  the  house  sounding  the  plate- 
glass  mirrors  with  their  knuckles,  striking  discordant  octaves 
on  the  grand  piano,  drawing  wet  forefingers  over  the  pic- 
tures, breathing  on  the  blades  of  the  best  dinner-knives, 
punching  the  squabs  of  chairs  and  sofas  with  their  dirty 
fists,  touzling  the  feather-beds,  opening  and  shutting  all  the 
drawers,  balancing  the  silver-spoons  and  forks,  locking  into 
the  very  threads  of  the  drapery  and  linen,  and  disparaging 
every  thing.  There  is  not  a  secret  place  in  the  whole  house. 
Fluffy  and  snuffy  strangers  stare  into  the  kitchen-range  as 
curiously  as  into  the  attic  clothes-press.  Stout  men  with 
napless  hats  on  look  out  of  the  bed-room  windows,  and  cut 
jokes  with  friends  in  the  street.  Quiet,  calculating  spirits 
withdraw  into  the  dressing-rooms  with  catalogues,  and  make 
marginal  notes  thereon  with  stumps  of  pencils.  Two  brokers 
invade  the  very  fire-escape,  and  take  a  panoramic  survey  of 
the  neighborhood  from  the  top  of  the  house.  The  swarm 
and  buzz,  and  going  up  and  down,  endure  for  days.  The 
capital  modern  household  furniture,  etc.,  is  on  view. 

Then  there  is  a  palisade  of  tables  made  in  the  best  draw- 
ing-room ;  and  on  the  capital,  French-polished,  extending, 
telescopic  range  of  Spanish  mahogany  dining-tables  with 
turned  legs,  the  pulpit  of  the  auctioneer  is  erected  ;  and  the 
herds  of  shabby  vampires,  Jew  and  Christian,  the  strangers 
iluffy  and  snuffy,  and  the  stout  men  with  the  napless  hats, 
congregate  about  it  and  sit  upon  every  thing  within  rea^h, 
inantie-pieces  included,  and  begin  to  bid,     Hot,  humming. 


826  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

and  dusty  are  the  rooms  all  day  ;  and — high  above  the  heat, 
hum,  and  dust — the  head  and  shoulders,  voice  and  hammer, 
of  the  auctioneer,  are  ever  at  work.  The  men  in  the  carpet- 
caps  get  flustered  and  vicious  with  tumbling  the  lots  about, 
and  still  the  lots  are  going,  going,  gone  ;  still  coming  on. 
Sometimes  there  is  joking  and  a  general  roar.  This  lasts  all 
day  and  three  days  following.  The  capital  modern  house- 
hold furniture,  etc.,  is  on  sale. 

Then  the  moldy  gigs  and  chaise-carts  re-appear  ;  and 
with  them  come  spring-vans  and  wagons,  and  an  army  of 
porters  with  knots.  All  day  long,  the  men  with  carpet-caps 
are  screwing  at  screw-drivers  and  bed-winches,  or  stagger- 
ing by  the  dozen  together  on  the  staircase  under  heavy 
burdens,  or  upheaving  perfect  rocks  of  Spanish  mahogany, 
best  rosewood,  or  plate-glass,  into  the  gigs  and  chaise-carts, 
vans  and  wagons.  All  sorts  of  vehicles  of  burden  are  in 
attendance,  from  a  titled  wagon  to  a  wheel-barrow.  Poor 
Paul's  little  bedstead  is  carried  off  in  a  donkey-tandem. 
For  nearly  a  whole  week,  the  capital  modern  household 
furniture,  etc.,  is  in  course  of  removal. 

At  last  it  is  all  gone.  Nothing  is  left  about  the  house  but 
scattered  leaves  of  catalogues,  littered  scraps  of  straw  and 
hay,  and  a  battery  of  pewter  pots  behind  the  hall-door.  The 
men  with  the  carpet-caps  gather  up  their  screw-drivers  and 
bed-winches  into  bags,  shoulder  them,  and  walk  off.  One 
of  the  pen-and-ink  gentlemen  goes  over  the  house  as  a  last 
attention  ;  sticking  up  bills  in  the  windows  respecting  the 
lease  of  this  desirable  family  mansion,  and  shutting  the 
shutters.  At  length  he  follows  the  men  with  the  carpet- 
caps.  None  of  the  invaders  remain.  The  house  is  a  ruin, 
and  the  rats  fly  from  it. 

Mrs.  Pipchin's  apartments,  together  with  those  locked 
rooms  on  the  ground-floor  where  the  window-blinds  are 
drawn  down  close,  have  been  spared  the  general  devastation. 
Mrs.  Pipchin  has  remained  austere  and  stony  during  the 
proceedings  in  her  own  room  ;  or  has  occasionally  looked 
in  at  the  sale  to  see  what  the  goods  are  fetching,  and  to  bid 
for  one  particular  easy-chair,  and  sits  upon  her  property 
when  Mrs.  Chick  comes  to  see  her. 

"  How  is  my  brother,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ? "  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

**  I  don't  know  any  more  than  the  deuce,"  said  Mrs.  Pip- 
chin. ''  He  never  does  me  the  honor  to  speak  to  me.  He 
has  his  meat  and  drink  put  in  the  next  room  to  his  own  ; 
and  what  he  takes,  he  comes  out  and  takes  when  there's 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  827 

nobody  there.  It's  no  use  asking  me.  I  know  no  more 
about  him  than  the  man  in  the  south  who  burned  his  mouth 
by  eating  cold  pkmi  porridge." 

This  the  acrimonious  Pipchin  says  with  a  flounce. 

**  But  good  gracious  me  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Chick,  blandly, 
*'  how  long  is  this  to  last  !  If  my  brother  will  not  make  an 
effort,  Mrs.  Pipchin,  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?  I  am  sure 
I  should  have  thought  he  had  seen  enough  of  the  conse- 
quences of  7iot  making  an  effort,  by  this  time,  to  be  warned 
against  that  fatal  error." 

"  Hoity  toity  ! "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin,  rubbing  her  nose. 
"  There's  a  great  fuss,  I  think,  about  it.  It  ain't  so  wonder- 
ful a  case.  People  have  had  misfortunes  before  now,  and 
been  obliged  to  part  with  their  furniture.     I'm  sure  /have  !" 

"  My  brother,"  pursues  Mrs.  Chick,  profoundly,  *'  is  so 
peculiar — so  strange  a  man.  He  is  the  most  peculiar  man  / 
ever  saw.  Would  any  one  believe  that  when  he  received 
news  of  the  marriage  and  emigration  of  that  unnatural  child 
— it's  a  comfort  to  me,  now,  to  remember  that  I  always  said 
there  was  something  extraordinary  about  that  child  ;  but 
nobody  minds  me — would  any  body  believe,  I  say,  that  he 
should  then  turn  round  upon  me  and  say  he  had  supposed, 
from  my  manner,  that  she  had  come  to  my  house  ?  Why, 
my  gracious  !  And  would  any  body  believe  that  when  I 
merely  say  to  him,  '  Paul,  I  may  be  very  foolish,  and  I  have 
no  doubt  I  am,  but  I  can  not  understand  how  your  affairs 
can  have  got  into  this  state,'  he  should  actually  fly  at  me, 
and  request  that  I  will  come  to  see  him  no  more  until  he 
asks  me  !  Why,  my  goodness  ! " 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Pipchin.  "  It's  a  pity  he  hadn't  a  little 
more  to  do  with  mines.  They'd  have  tried  his  temper  for 
him." 

"  And  what,"  resumes  Mrs.  Chick,  quite  regardless  of 
Mrs.  Pipchin's  observations,  "  is  it  to  end  in  ?  That's  what 
I  want  to  know.  What  does  my  brother  mean  to  do  ?  He 
must  do  something.  It's  of  no  use  remaining  shut  up  in  his 
own  rooms.  Business  won't  come  to  him.  No.  He  must 
go  to  it.  Then  why  don't  he  go  !  He  knows  where  to  go,  I 
suppose,  having  been  a  man  of  business  all  his  life.  Very 
good.     Then  why  not  go  there  !  " 

Mrs.  Chick,  after  forging  this  powerful  chain  of  reasoning, 
remains  silent  for  a  minute  to  admire  it. 

"  Besides,"  says  the  discreet  lady,  with  an  argumentative 
air,  ''  who  ever  heard   of  such  obstinacy  as  his  staying  shut 


828  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

up  here  through  all  these  dreadful  disagreeables  ?  It's  not 
ds  if  there  was  no  place  for  him  to  go  to.  Of  course  he 
could  have  come  to  our  house.  He  knows  he  is  at  home 
there,  I  suppose  ?  Mr.  Chick  has  perfectly  bored  about  it, 
and  I  said  with  my  own  lips,  *  Why  surely,  Paul,  you  don't 
imagine  that  because  your  affairs  have  got  into  this  state, 
you  are  the  less  at  home  to  such  near  relatives  as  ourselves  ? 
You  don't  imagine  that  we  are  like  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  " 
But  no  ;  here  he  stays  all  through,  and  here  he  is.  Why, 
good  gracious  me,  suppose  the  house  was  to  be  let  !  What 
would  he  do  then  ?  He  couldn't  remain  here,  then.  If  he 
attempted  to  do  so,  there  would  be  an  ejectment,  an  action 
for  Doe,  and  all  sorts  of  things  ;  and  then  he  must  go.  Then 
why  not  go  at  first  instead  of  at  last  ?  And  that  brings  me 
back  to  what  I  said  just  now,  and  I  naturally  ask  what  is  to 
be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  what's  to  be  the  end  of  it,  as  far  as  /  am  con- 
cerned," replies  Mrs.  Pipchin,  "  and  that's  enough  for  me. 
I'm  going  to  take  myseli  off  in  a  jiffy." 

"  In  a  which,  Mrs.  Pipchin  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  In  a  jiffy,"  retorts  Mrs.  Pipchin,  sharply. 

"  Ah,  well  !  really  I  can't  blame  you,  Mrs.  Pipchin,"  says 
Mrs.  Chick  with  frankness. 

"  It  would  be  pretty  much  the  same  to  me  if  you  could," 
replies  the  sardonic  Pipchin.  '*  At  any  rate,  I'm  going.  I 
can't  stop  here.  I  should  be  dead  in  a  week.  I  had  to 
cook  my  own  pork  chop  yesterday,  and  I'm  not  used  to  it. 
My  constitution  will  be  giving  way  next.  Besides,  I  had  a 
very  fair  connection  at  Brighton  when  I  came  here — little 
Pankey's  folks  alone  were  worth  a  good  eighty  pounds  a 
year  to  me — and  I  can't  afford  to  throw  it  away.  I've 
written  to  my  niece,  and  she  expects  me  by  this  time." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  my  brother  ?  "  inquires  Mrs.  Chick. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it's  very  easy  to  say  speak  to  him,"  retorts  Mrs. 
Pipchin.  ''  How  is  it  done  !  I  called  out  to  him  yesterday, 
that  I  was  no  use  here,  and  that  he  had  better  let  me  send 
for  Mrs.  Richards.  He  grunted  something  or  other  that 
m.eant  yes,  and  I  sent  !  Grunt  indeed  !  If  he  had  been 
Mr.  Pipchin,  he'd  have  had  some  reason  to  grunt.  Yah  ! 
I've  no  patience  with  it  !  " 

Here  this  exemplary  female,  who  has  pumped  up  so  much 
fortitude  and  virtue  from  the  depths  of  the  Peruvian  mines, 
rises  from  her  cushioned  property  to  see  Mrs.  Chick  to  the 
door.     Mrs.  Chick,  deploring  to  the  last  the  peculiar  char- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  829 

acter  of  her  brother,  noiselessly  retires,  much  occupied  with 
her  own  sagacity  and  clearness  of  head. 

In  the  dusk  of  the  evening  Mr.  Toodle,  being  off  duty, 
arrives  with  Polly  and  a  box,  and  leaves  them,  with  a 
sounding  kiss,  in  the  hall  of  the  empty  house,  the  retired 
character  of  which  affects  Mr.  Toodle's  spirits  strongly. 

''  I  tell  you  what,  Polly,  my  dear,"  says  Mr.  Toodle, 
"  being  now  an  ingein-driver,  and  well  to  do  in  the  world,  I 
shouldn't  allow  of  your  coming  here,  to  be  made  dull-like,  if 
it  warn't  for  favors  past.  But  favors  past,  Polly,  is  never  to 
be  forgot.  To  them  which  is  in  adversity,  besides,  your  face 
is  a  cord'l.  So  let's  have  another  kiss  on  it,  my  dear.  You 
wish  no  better  than  to  do  a  right  act,  I  know  ;  and  my 
views  is,  that  it's  right  and  dutiful  to  do  this.  Good-night, 
Polly  !  " 

Mrs.  Pipchin  by  this  time  looms  dark  in  her  black  bom- 
bazeen  skirts,  black  bonnet,  and  shawl  ;  and  hasher  personal 
property  packed  up  ;  and  has  her  chair  (late  a  favorite 
chair  of  Mr.  Dombey's  and  the  dead  bargain  of  the  sale) 
ready  near  the  street  door  ;  and  is  only  waiting  for  a  fly  van, 
going  to-night  to  Brighton  on  private  service,  which  is  to 
call  for  her,  by  private  contract,  and  convey  her  home. 

Presently  it  comes.  Mrs.  Pipchin's  wardrobe  being 
handed  in  and  stowed  away,  Mrs.  Pipchin's  chair  is  next 
handed  in,  and  placed  in  a  convenient  corner  among  certam 
trusses  of  hay  ;  it  being  the  intention  of  the  amiable  woman 
to  occupy  the  chair  during  her  journey.  Mrs.  Pipchin  her- 
self is  next  handed  in,  and  grimly  takes  her  seat.  There  is 
a  snaky  gleam  in  her  hard  gray  eye,  as  of  anticipated  rounds 
of  buttered  toast,  relays  of  hot  chops,  worrying  and  quell- 
ings  of  young  children,  sharp  snappings  at  poor  Berry,  and 
all  the  other  delights  of  her  ogress's  castle.  Mrs.  Pipchm 
almost  laughs  as  the  fly  van  drives  off,  and  she  composes  her 
black  bombazeen  skirts,  and  settles  herself  among  the  cush- 
ions of  her  easy-chair. 

The  house  is  such  a  ruin  that  the  rats  have  fled,  and  there 
is  not  one  left. 

But  Polly,  though  alone  in  the  deserted  mansion— for 
there  is  no  companionship  in  the  shut-up  rooms  in  which  its 
late  master  hides  his  head — is  not  alone  long.  It  is  night  ; 
and  she  is  sitting  at  work  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  trying 
to  forget  what  a  lonely  house  it  is,  and  what  a  history 
belongs  to  it  ;  when  there  is  a  knock  at  the  hall  door,  as 
loud  sounding  as  any  knock  can  be,  striking  into  such   an 


830  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

empty  place.  Opening  it,  she  returns  across  the  echoing 
hall,  accompanied  by  a  female  figure  in  a  close  black  bon- 
net.    It  is  Miss  Tox,  and  Miss  Tox's  eyes  are  red. 

**  Oh,  Polly,"  says  Miss  Tox,  "  when  I  looked  in  to  have 
a  little  lesson  with  the  children  just  now,  I  got  the  message 
that  you  left  for  me  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  could  recover 
my  spirits  at  all,  I  came  on  after  you.  Is  there  no  one 
here  but  you  ?  " 

''  Ah  !  not  a  soul,"  says  Polly. 

"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  "  whispers  Miss  Tox. 

"  Bless  you,"  returns  Polly,  "  no  ;  he  has  not  been 
seen  this  many  a  day.  They  tell  me  he  never  leaves  his 
room." 

'*  Is  he  said  to  be  ill  ?  "  inquires  Miss  Tox. 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  that  I  know  of,  "  returns  Polly, 
"  except  in  his  mind.  He  must  be  very  bad  there,  poor 
gentleman  !  " 

Miss  Tox's  sympathy  is  such  that  she  can  scarcely  speak. 
She  is  no  chicken,  but  she  has  not  grown  tough,  with 
age  and  celibacy.  Her  heart  is  very  tender,  her  com- 
passion very  genuine,  her  homage  very  real.  Beneath  the 
locket  with  the  fishy  eye  in  it,  Miss  Tox  bears  better  quali- 
ties than  many  a  less  whimsical  outside  ;  such  qualities  as 
will  outlive,  by  many  courses  of  the  sun,  the  best  out- 
sides  and  brightest  husks  that  fall  in  the  harvest  of  the 
great  reaper. 

It  is  long  before  Miss  Tox  goes  away,  and  before  Polly, 
with  a  candle  flaring  on  the  blank  stairs,  looks  after  her,  for 
company,  down  the  street,  and  feels  unwilling  to  go  back 
into  the  dreary  house,  and  jar  its  emptiness  with  the  heavy 
fastenings  of  the  door,  and  glide  away  to  bed.  But  all  this 
Polly  does  ;  and  in  the  morning  sets  m  one  of  those  dark- 
ened rooms  such  matters  as  she  has  been  advised  to  prepare, 
and  then  retires  and  enters  them  no  more  until  next  morn- 
ing at  the  same  hour.  There  are  bells  there,  but  they  never 
ring  ;  and  though  she  can  sometimes  hear  a  footfall  going 
to  and  fro,  it  never  comes  out. 

Miss  Tox  returns  early  in  the  day.  It  then  begins  to  be 
Miss  Tox's  occupation  to  prepare  little  dainties — or  what 
are  such  to  her — to  be  carried  into  these  rooms  next  morn- 
ing. She  derives  so  much  satisfaction  from  the  pursuit, 
that  she  enters  on  it  regularly  from  that  time  ;  and  brings 
daily  in  her  little  basket  various  choice  condiments  selected 
from  the  scanty  stores  of  the  deceased  owner  of  the  powdered 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  831 

head  and  pigtail.  She  likewise  brings,  in  sheets  of  curl- 
paper, morsels  of  cold  meats,  tongues  of  sheep,  halves  of 
fowls,  for  her  own  dinner  ;  and,  sharing  these  collations  with 
Polly,  passes  the  greater  part  of  her  time'  in  the  ruined  house 
that  the  rats  have  fled  from  ;  hiding,  in  a  fright  at  every 
sound,  stealing  in  and  out  like  a  criminal  ;  only  desiring  to  be 
true  to  the  fallen  object  of  her  admiration,  unknown  to  him, 
unknown  to  all  the  world  but  one  poor  simple  woman. 

The  major  knows  it;  but  no  one  is  the  wiser  for  that, 
though  the  major  is  much  the  merrier.  The  major,  in 
a  fit  of  curiosity,  has  charged  the  native  to  watch  the 
house  sometimes,  and  find  out  what  becomes  of  Dombev. 
The  native  has  reported  Miss  Tox's  fidelity,  and  the  major 
has  nearly  choked  himself  dead  with  laughter.  He  is  per- 
manently bluer  from  that  hour,  and  constantly  wheezes  to 
himself,  his  lobster  eyes  starting  out  of  his  head,  ''  Damme, 
sir,  the  woman's  a  born  idiot  !  " 

And  the  ruined  man.  How  does  he  pass  the  hours, 
alone  ? 

''Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come  !  "  He 
did  remember  it.  It  was  heavy  on  his  mind  now  ;  heavier 
than  all  the  rest. 

"  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to  come.  The 
rain  that  falls  upon  the  roof,  the  wind  that  mourns  outside 
the  door,  may  have  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy 
sound.  Let  him  remember  it  in  that  room,  years  to 
come  !  " 

He  did  remember  it.  In  the  miserable  nights  he  thought 
of  it ;  in  the  dreary  day,  the  wretched  dawn,  the  ghostly, 
memory-haunted  twilight.  He  did  remember  it.  In  agony, 
in  sorrow,  in  remorse,  in  despair  !  ''  Papa  !  papa  ! 
Speak  to  me,  dear  papa  ?  "  He  heard  the  words  again, 
and  saw  the  face.  He  saw  it  fall  upon  the  trembling  hands, 
and  heard  the  one  prolonged  low  cry  go  upward. 

He  was  fallen,  never  to  be  raised  up  any  more.  For  the 
night  of  his  worldly  ruin  there  was  no  to-morrow's  sun  ;  for 
the  stain  of  domestic  shame  there  was  no  purification  ;  noth- 
ing, thank  heaven,  could  bring  his  dead  child  back  to  life. 
But  that  which  he  might  have  made  so  different  in  all  the 
past — which  might  have  made  the  past  itself  so  different, 
though  this  he  hardly  thought  of  now — that  which  was  his 
own  work,  that  which  he  could  so  easily  have  wrought  into 
a  blessing,  and  had  set  himself  so  steadily  for  years  to  form 
into  a  curse  ;  that  was  the  sharp  grief  of  his  soul. 


532  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

Oh  !  He  did  remember  it  !  The  rain  that  fell  upon  the 
roof,  the  wind  that  mourned  outside  the  door  that  nighv, 
had  had  foreknowledge  in  their  melancholy  sound.  He 
knew,  now,  what  he  had  done.  He  knew,  now,  that  he  had 
called  down  that  upon  his  head,  which  bowed  it  lower  than 
the  heaviest  stroke  of  fortune.  He  knew  now,  what  it  was 
to  be  rejected  and  deserted  ;  now,  when  every  loving  blos- 
som he  had  withered  in  his  innocent  daughter's  heart  was 
snowing  down  in  ashes  on  him. 

He  thought  of  her  as  she  had  been  that  night  when  he 
and  his  bride  came  home.  He  thought  of  her  as  she  had 
been,  in  all  the  home  events  of  the  abandoned  house.  He 
thought,  now,  that,  of  all  around  him,  she  alone  had  never 
changed.  His  boy  had  faded  into  dust,  his  proud  wife  had 
sunk  into  a  polluted  creature,  his  flatterer  and  friend  had 
been  transformed  into  the  worst  of  villains,  his  riches  had 
melted  away,  the  very  walls  that  sheltered  him  looked  on 
him  as  a  stranger;  she  alone  had  turned  the  same  mild 
gentle  look  upon  him  always.  Yes,  to  the  latest  and  the 
last.  She  had  never  changed  to  him — nor  had  he  ever 
changed   to  .her — and  she  was  lost. 

As,  one  by  one,  they  fell  away  before  his  mind — his  baby- 
hope,  his  wife,  his  triend,  his  fortune — oh  how  the  mist, 
through  which  he  had  seen  her,  cleared,  and  showed  him 
her  true  self  !  Oh,  how  much  better  than  this  that  he  had 
loved  her  as  he  had  his  boy,  and  lost  her  as  he  had  his  boy, 
and  laid  them  in  their  early  grave  together  ! 

In  his  pride — for  he  was  proud  yet — he  let  the  world  go 
from  him  freely.  As  it  fell  away,  he  shook  it  off.  Whether 
he  imagined  its  face  as  expressing  pity  for  him,  or  indifference 
to  him,  he  shunned  it  alike.  It  was  in  the  same  degree  to 
be  avoided,  in  either  aspect.  He  had  no  idea  of  any  one 
companion  in  his  misery,  but  the  one  he  had  driven  away. 
What  he  would  have  said  to  her,  or  what  consolation  sub- 
mitted to  receive  from  her,  he  never  pictured  to  himself. 
But  he  always  knew  she  would  have  been  true  to  him,  if  he 
had  suffered  her.  He  always  knew  she  would  have  loved  him 
better  now  than  at  any  other  time  ;  he  was  as  certain  that  it 
was  in  her  nature,  as  he  was  that  there  was  a  sky  above  him  ; 
and  he  sat  thinking  so,  in  his  loneliness,  from  hour  to  hour. 
Day  after  day  uttered  this  speech  ;  night  after  night  showed 
him  this  knowledge. 

It  began,  beyond  all  doubt  (however  slowly  it  advanced 
for  some  time),  in  the  receipt  of  her  young  husband's  letter, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  833 

and  the  certainty  that  she  was  gone.  And  yet — so  proud  he 
was  in  his  ruin,  or  so  reminiscent  of  her,  only  as  something 
that  might  have  been  his,  but  was  lost  beyond  redemption — 
that  if  he  could  have  heard  her  voice  in  an  adjoining  room, 
he  would  not  have  gone  to  her.  If  he  could  have  seen  her 
in  the  street,  and  she  had  done  no  more  than  look  at  him  as 
she  had  been  used  to  look,  he  would  have  passed  on  with 
his  old,  cold,  unforgiving  face,  and  not  addressed  her,  or 
relaxed  it,  though  his  heart  should  have  broken  soon  after- 
ward. However  turbulent  his  thoughts,  or  harsh  his  anger 
had  been,  at  first,  concerning  her  marriage,  or  her  husband, 
that  was  all  past  now.  He  chiefly  thought  of  what  might 
have  been,  and  what  was  not.  What  was,  was  all  summed 
up  in  this  :  that  she  was  lost,  and  he  bowed  down  with  sor- 
row and  remorse. 

And  now  he  felt  that  he  had  had  two  children  born  to 
him  in  that  house,  and  that  between  him  and  the  bare  wide 
empty  walls  there  was  a  tie,  mournful,  but  hard  to  rend 
asunder,  connected  with  a  double  childhood  and  a  double 
loss.  He  had  thought  to  leave  the  house — knowing  he  must 
go,  not  knowing  whither — upon  the  evening  of  the  day  on 
which  this  feeling  first  struck  root  in  his  breast  ;  but  he 
resolved  to  stay  another  night,  and  in  the  night  to  ramble 
through  the  rooms  once  more. 

He  came  out  of  his  sohtude  when  it  was  the  dead  of  night, 
and  with  a  candle  in  his  hand  went  softly  up  the  stairs.  Of  all 
the  foot-marks  there,  making  them  as  common  as  the  common 
street,  there  was  not  one,  he  thought,  but  had  seemed  at  the 
time  to  set  itself  upon  his  brain  while  he  had  kept  close, 
listening.  He  looked  at  their  number,  and  their  hurry,  and 
contention — foot  treading  foot  out,  and  upward  track 
and  downward  jostling  another — and  thought,  with  abso- 
lute dread  and  wonder,  how  much  he  must  have  suffered 
during  that  trial,  and  what  a  changed  man  he  had 
cause  to  be.  He  thought,  besides,  oh  was  there,  some- 
where in  the  world,  a  light  footstep  that  might  have  worn  out 
in  a  moment  half  those  marks  ! — and  bent  his  head,  and 
wept  as  he  went  up. 

He  almost  saw  it,  going  on  before.  He  stopped,  looking 
up  toward  the  sky-light  ;  and  a  figure,  childish  itself,  but 
carrying  a  child,  and  singing  as  it  went,  seemed  to  be  there 
again.  Anon,  it  was  the  same  figure,  alone,  stopping  for  an 
instant,  with  suspended  breath  ;  the  bright  hair  clustering 
loosely  round  its  tearful  face  ;  and  looking  back  at  him. 


534  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms,  lately  so  luxurious,  now 
so  bare  and  dismal,  and  so  changed,  apparently,  even  in 
their  shape  and  size.  The  press  of  footsteps  was  as  thick 
here  ;  and  the  same  consideration  of  the  suffering  he  had 
had,  perplexed  and  terrified  him.  He  began  to  fear  that  all 
this  intricacy  in  his  brain  would  drive  him  mad  ;  and  that 
his  thoughts  already  lost  coherence  as  the  foot-prints  did, 
and  were  pieced  on  to  one  another,  with  the  same  trackless 
involutions,  and  varieties  of  indistinct  shapes. 

He  did  not  so  much  as  know  in  which  of  these  rooms  she 
had  lived  when  she  was  alone.  He  was  glad  to  leave  them, 
and  go  wandering  higher  up.  Abundance  of  associations 
were  here,  connected  with  his  false  wife,  his  false  friend 
and  servant,  his  false  grounds  of  pride  ;  but  he  put  them  all 
by  now,  and  only  recalled  miserably,  weakly,  fondly,  his  two 
children. 

Everywhere,  the  footsteps  !  They  had  had  no  respect 
for  the  old  room  high  up,  where  the  little  bed  had  been  ; 
he  could  hardly  find  a  clear  space  there,  to  throw  himself 
down  on  the  floor,  against  the  v/all,  poor  broken  man,  and 
let  his  tears  flow  as  they  tvould.  He  had  shed  so  many  tears 
here,  long  ago,  that  he  was  less  ashamed  of  his  weakness  in 
this  place  than  in  any  other — perhaps,  v\dth  that  conscious- 
ness, had  made  excuses  to  himself  for  coming  here.  Here, 
with  stooping  shoulders,  and  his  chin  dropped  on  his  breast, 
he  had  come.  Here,  thrown  upon  the  bare  boards,  in  the 
dead  of  night,  he  wept,  alone — a  proud  man  even  then  ; 
who,  if  a  kind  hand  could  have  been  stretched  out,  or  a 
kind  face  could  have  looked  in,  would  have  risen  up,  and 
turned  away,  and  gone  down  to  his  cell. 

When  the  day  broke  he  was  shut  up  in  his  rooms  again. 
He  had  meant  to  go  away  to-day,  but  clung  to  this  tie  in 
the  house  as  the  last  and  only  thing  left  to  him.  He  would 
go  to-morrow.  To-morrow  came.  He  would  go  to-morrow. 
Every  night,  within  the  knowledge  of  no  human  creature, 
he  came  forth,  and  wandered  through  the  despoiled  house 
like  a  ghost:  Many  a  morning  when  the  day  broke,  his 
altered  -face,  drooping  behind  the  closed  blind  in  his  win- 
dow, imperfectly  transparent  to  the  light  as  yet,  pondered 
on  the  loss  of  his  two  children.  It  was  one  child  no  more. 
He  reunited  them  in  his  thoughts,  and  they  were  never 
asunder.  Oh  that  he  could  have  united  them  in  his  past 
love,  and  in  death,  and  that  one  had  not  been  so  much 
Worse  than  dead  ! 


"  OH,   MY    GOD,    rORGIVE   ME,    TOR    I   NEED   IT   VERY   MUCH  ! 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  835 

Strong  mental  agitation  and  disturbance  was  no  novelty 
to  him,  even  before  his  late  sufferings.  It  never  is,  to  obsti- 
nate and  sullen  natures  ;  for  they  struggle  hard  to  be  such. 
Ground,  long  undermined,  will  often  fall  down  in  a  moment  ; 
what  was  undermined  here  in  so  many  ways,  weak- 
ened, and  crumbled,  little  by  little,  more  and  more,  as  the 
hand  moved  on  the  dial. 

At  last  he  began  to  think  he  need  not  go  at  all.  He 
might  yet  give  up  what  his  creditors  had  spared  him  (that 
they  had  not  spared  him  more,  was  his  own  act),  and  only 
sever  the  tie  between  him  and  the  ruined  house,  by  sever- 
ing that  other  link — 

It  was  then  that  his  footfall  was  audible  in  the  late  house- 
keeper's room,  as  he  walked  to  and  fro  ;  but  not  audible  in 
its  true  meaning,  or  it  would  have  had  an  appalling  sound. 

The  world  was  very  busy  and  restless  about  him.  He 
became  aware  of  that  again.  It  was  whispering  and  bab- 
bling. It  was  never  quiet.  This,  and  the  intricacy  and 
complication  of  the  footsteps,  harassed  him  to  death. 
Objects  began  to  take  a  bleared  and  russet  color  in  his  eyes. 
Dombey  and  Son  was  no  more — his  children  no  more. 
This  must  be  thought  of  well  to-morrow. 

He  thought  of  it  to-morrow;  and  sitting  thinking  in  his 
chair,  saw  in  the  glass,  from  time  to  time,  this  picture: 

A  spectral,  haggard,  wasted  likeness  of  himself,  brooded 
and  brooded  over  the  empty  fire-place.  Now  it  lifted  up  its 
head,  examining  the  lines  and  hollows  in  its  face;  now  hung 
it  down  again,  and  brooded  afresh.  Now  it  rose  and  walked 
about;  now  passed  into  the  next  room,  and  came  back  with 
something  from  the  dressing-table  in  its  breast.  Now  it  was 
looking  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  and  thinking. 

— Hush!  what  ? 

It  was  thinking  that  if  blood  were  to  trickle  that  way,  and 
to  leak  out  into  the  hall,  it  must  be  a  long  time  going  so  far. 
It  would  move  so  stealthily  and  slowly,  creeping  on,  with 
here  a  lazy  little  pool,  and  there  a  start,  and  then  another 
little  pool,  that  a  desperately  wounded  man  could  only  be 
discovered  through  its  means,  either  dead  or  dying.  ^  When 
it  had  thought  of  this  a  long  while,  it  got  up  again,  and 
walked  to  and  fro  with  its  hand  in  its  breast.  He  glanced 
at  it  occasionally,  very  curious  to  watch  its  motions,  and  he 
marked  how  wicked  and  murderous  that  hand  looked. 

Now  it  was  thinking  again!     What  was  it  thinking  ? 

Whether  they  would  tread  in  the  blood  when  it  crept  so 


836  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

far,  and  carry  it  about  the  house  among  those  many  prints 
of  feet,  or  even  out  into  the  street. 

It  sat  down,  with  its  eyes  upon  the  empty  fire-place,  and 
as  it  lost  itself  in  thought  there  shone  into  the  room  a  gleam 
of  light — a  ray  of  sun.  It  was  quite  unmindful,  and  sat 
thinking.  Suddenly  it  rose,  with  a  terrible  face,  and  that 
guilty  hand  grasping  what  was  in  its  breast.  Then  it  was 
arrested  by  a  cry — a  wild,  loud,  piercing,  loving,  rapturous 
cry — and  he  only  saw  his  own  reflection  in  the  glass,  and  at 
his  knees  his  daughter! 

Yes.  His  daughter!  Look  at  her!  Look  here!  Down 
upon  the  ground,  clinging  to  him,  calling  to  him,  folding 
her  hands,  praying  to  him. 

"  Papa!  Dearest  papa!  Pardon  me,  forgive  me!  I  have 
come  back  to  ask  forgiveness  on  my  knees.  I  never  can  be 
happy  more  without  it!  " 

Unchanged  still.  Of  all  the  world,  unchanged.  Raising 
the  same  face  to  his,  as  on  that  miserable  night.  Asking  his 
forgiveness! 

"  Dear  papa,  oh  don't  look  strangely  on  me!  I  never 
meant  to  leave  you.  I  never  thought  of  it,  before  or  after- 
ward. I  was  frightened  when  I  went  away,  and  could  not 
think.  Papa,  dear,  I  am  changed.  I  am  penitent.  I  know 
my  fault.  I  know  my  duty  better  now.  Papa,  don't  cast 
me  off,  or  I  shall  die! " 

He  tottered  to  his  chair.  He  felt  her  draw  his  arms  about 
her  neck;  he  felt  her  put  her  own  round  his;  he  felt  her 
kisses  on  his  face;  he  felt  her  wet  cheek  laid  against  his 
own;  he  felt — oh,  how  deeply! — all  that  he  had  done. 

Upon  the  breast  that  he  had  bruised,  against  the  heart 
that  he  had  almost  broken,  she  laid  his  face,  now  covered 
with  his  hands,  and  said,  sobbing: 

"  Papa,  love,  I  am  a  mother.  I  have  a  child  who  will 
soon  call  Walter  by  the  name  by  which  I  call  you.  When  it 
was  born,  and  when  I  knew  how  much  I  loved  it,  I  knew 
what  I  had  done  in  leaving  you.  Forgive  me,  dear  papa! 
oh  say  God  bless  me  and  my  little  child! " 

He  would  have  said  it,  if  he  could.  He  would  have  raised 
his  hands  and  besought  her  for  pardon,  but  she  caught  them 
in  her  own,  and  put  them  down  hurriedly. 

**  My  little  child  was  born  at  sea,  papa.  I  prayed  to  God 
(and  so  did  Walter  for  me)  to  spare  me,  that  I  might  come 
home.  The  moment  I  could  land  I  came  back  to  you. 
Never  let  us  be  parted  any  more,  papa! " 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  837 

His  head,  now  gray,  was  encircled  by  her  arm;  and  he 
groaned  to  ^^ink  that  never,  never,  had  it  rested  so  before. 

"  You  will  come  home  with  me,  papa,  and  see  my  baby. 
A  boy,  papa.  His  name  is  Paul.  I  think — I  hope — he's 
like—" 

Her  tears  stopped  her. 

"  Dear  papa,  for  the  sake  of  my  child,  for  the  sake  of  the 
name  we  have  given  him,  for  my  sake,  pardon  Walter.  He 
is  so  kind  and  tender  to  me.  I  am  so  happy  with  him.  It 
was  no  fault  of  his  that  we  were  married.  It  was  mine.  I 
loved  him  so  much." 

She  clung  closer  to  him,  more  endearing  and  more  earnest. 
"  He  is  the  darling  of  my  heart,  papa.  I  would  die  for 
him.  He  will  love  and  honor  you  as  I  will.  We  will  teach 
our  little  child  to  love  and  honor  you  ;  and  will  tell  him, 
when  he  can  understand,  that  you  had  a  son  of  that  name 
once,  and  that  he  died,  and  you  were  very  sorry  ;  but  that 
he  is  gone  to  heaven,  where  we  all  hope  to  see  him  when 
our  time  for  resting  comes.  Kiss  me,  papa,  as  a  promise 
that  you  will  be  reconciled  to  Walter — to  my  dearest 
husband — to  the  father  of  the  little  child  who  taught  me  to 
come  back  !  " 

As  she  clung  closer  to  him,  in  another  burst  of  tears,  he 
kissed  her  on  her  lips,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  said,  "  Oh  my 
God,  forgive  me,  for  I  need  it  very  much  !  " 

With  that  he  dropped  his  head  again,  lamenting  over  and 
caressing  her,  and  there  was  not  a  sound  in  all  the  house 
for  a  long,  long  time  ;  they  remaining  clasped  in  one 
another's  arms,  in  the  glorious  sunshine  that  had  crept  in 
with  Florence. 

He  dressed  himself  for  going  out,  with  a  docile  submis- 
sion to  her  entreaty  ;  and  walking  with  a  feeble  gait,  and 
looking  back,  with  a  tremble,  at  the  room  in  which  he  had 
been  so  long  shut  up,  and  where  he  had  seen  the  picture  in 
the  glass,  passed  out  with  her  into  the  hall.  Florence, 
hardly  glancing  round  her,  lest  she  should  remind  him 
freshly  of  their  last  parting — for  their  feet  were  on  the  very 
stones  where  he  had  struck  her  in  his  madness — and  keeping 
close  to  him,  with  her  eyes  upon  his  face,  and  his  arm  about 
her,  led  him  out  to  a  coach  that  was  waiting  at  the  door,  and 
carried  him  away. 

Then  Miss  Tox  and  Polly  came  out  of  their  concealment, 
und  exulted  tearfully.     And  then  they  packed  his  clotheSj 


838  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

and  books,  and  so  forth,  with  great  care  ;  and  consigned 
them  in  due  course  to  certain  persons  sent  by  Florence  m 
the  evening,  to  fetch  them.  And  then  they  took  a  last  cup 
of  tea  in  the  lonely  house. 

"  And  so  Dombey  and  Son,  as  I  observed  upon  a  certain 
sad  occasion,"  said  Miss  Tox,  winding  up  a  host  of  recol- 
lections, "is  indeed  a  daughter,  Polly,  after  all." 

'*  And  a  good  one  !  "  exclaimed  Polly. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Miss  Tox  ;  ''  and  it's  a  credit  to  you, 
Polly,  that  you  were  always  her  friend  when  she  was  a  little 
child.  You  were  her  friend  long  before  I  was,  Polly,"  said 
Miss  Tox  ;  "  and  you're  a  good  creature,  Robin  !  " 

Miss  Tox  addressed  herself  to  a  bullet-headed  young 
man,  who  appeared  to  be  in  but  indifferent  circumstances, 
and  in  depressed  spirits,  and  who  was  sitting  in  a  remote 
corner.  Rising,  he  disclosed  to  view  the  form  and  features 
of  the  grinder. 

*'  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  have  just,  observed  to  your 
mother,  as  you  may  have  heard,  that  she  is  a  good  creature." 

"  And  so  she  is,  miss,"  quoth  the  grinder,  with  some  feel- 
ing. 

"  Very  well,  Robin,"  said  Miss  Tox,  "  I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  say  so.  Now,  Robin,  as  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  trial, 
at  your  urgent  request,  as  my  domestic,  with  a  view  to  your 
restoration  to  respectability,  I  will  take  this  impressive  occa- 
sion of  remarking  that  I  hope  you  will  never  forget  that  you 
have,  and  have  always  had,  a  good  mother,  and  that  you 
will  endeavor  so  to  conduct  yourself  as  to  be  a  comfort  to 
her." 

"  Upon  my  soul  I  will,  miss,"  returned  the  grinder.  "  I 
have  come  through  a  good  deal,  and  my  intentions  is  now  as 
straightfor'ard,  miss,  as  a  cove's — " 

"  I  must  get  you  to  break  yourself  of  that  word,  Robin,  if 
you  please,"  interposed  Miss  Tox,  politely. 

"  If  you  please,  miss,  as  a  chap's — " 

"  Thankee,  Robin,  no,"  returned  Miss  Tox.  "  I  should 
prefer  individual." 

"As  a  indiwiddle's,"  said  the  grinder. 

"  Much  better,"  remarked  Miss  Tox,  complacently  ;  "  infi- 
nitely more  expressive  !  " 

" — can  be,"  pursued  Rob.  "If  I  hadn't  been  and  got 
made  a  grinder  on,  miss  and  mother,  which  was  a  most 
unfortunate  circumstance  for  a  young  co —  indiwiddle." 

"  Very  good  indeed,"  observed  Miss  Tox,  approvingly. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S39 

" — and  if  I  hadn't  been  led  away  by  birds,  and  then  fallen 
into  a  bad  service,"  said  the  grinder,  "  I  hope  I  might  have 
done  better.     But  it's  never  too  late  for  a — " 

"  Indi — "  suggested  Miss  Tox. 

" — widdle,"  said  the  grinder,  "  to  mend  ;  and  I  hope  to 
mend,  miss,  with  your  kind  trial  ;  and  wishing,  mother, 
mv  love  to  father,  and  brothers  and  sisters,  and  saving 
of  it." 

"  I  am  very  glad  indeed  to  hear  it,"  obsers^ed  Miss  Tox. 
"  Will  you  take  a  little  bread  and  butter,  and  a  cup  of  tea, 
before  you  go,  Robin  ?  " 

"  Thankee,  miss,"  returned  the  grinder  ;  who  immediately 
began  to  use  his  own  personal  grinders  in  a  most  remarka- 
ble manner,  as  if  he  had  been  on  a  very  short  allowance  for  a 
considerable  period. 

Miss  Tox,  being  in  good  time  bonneted  and  shawled,  and 
Polly  too,  Rob  hugged  his  mother,  and  followed  his  new 
mistress  away  ;  so  much  to  the  hopeful  admiration  of  Polly, 
that  something  in  her  eyes  made  luminous  rings  round  the 
gas-lamps  as  she  looked  after  him.  Polly  then  put  out  her 
light,  locked  the  house-door,  delivered  the  key  to  an  agent's 
hard  by,  and  went  home  as  fast  as  she  could  go  ;  rejoicing 
in  the  shrill  delight  that  her  unexpected  arrival  would  occa- 
sion there.  The  great  house,  dumb  as  to  all  that  had  been 
suffered  in  it,  and  the  changes  it  had  witnessed,  stood  frown- 
ing like  a  dark  mute  on  the  street  ;  balking  any  nearer 
inquiries  wnth  the  startling  announcement  that  the  lease  of 
this  desirable  family  mansion  was  to  be  disposed  of. 


CHAPTER   LX. 

CHIEFLY    MATRIMONIAL. 

The  grand  half-yearly  festival  holden  by  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Blimber,  on  which  occasion  they  requested  the  pleasure  of 
the  company  of  every  young  gentleman  pursuing  his  studies 
in  that  genteel  establishment,  at  an  early  party,  when  the 
hour  was  half -past  seven  o'clock,  and  when  the  object  was 
quadrilles,  had  duly  taken  place  about  this  time  ;  and  the 
young  gentlemen,  with  no  unbecoming  demonstrations  of 
levity,  had  betaken  themselves  in  a  state  of  scholastic  reple- 
tion, to  their  own  homes.  Mr.  Skettles  had  repaired  abroad 
permanently  to  grace  the  establishment  of  his  father  Sir  Bar- 


840  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

net  Skettles,  whose  popular  manners  had  obtained  him  a 
diplomatic  appointment,  the  honors  of  which  were  dis- 
charged by  himself  and  Lady  Skettles,  to  the  satisfaction 
even  of  their  own  countrymen  and  countrywomen  ;  which 
was  considered  almost  miraculous.  Mr.  Tozer,  now  a  young 
man  of  lofty  stature,  in  Wellington  boots,  was  so  extremely 
full  of  antiquity  as  to  be  nearly  on  a  par  with  a  genuine 
ancient  Roman  in  his  knowledge  of  English  ;  a  triumph  that 
affected  his  good  parents  with  the  tenderest  emotions,  and 
caused  the  father  and  mother  of  Mr,  Briggs  (whose  learning, 
like  an  ill-arranged  luggage,  was  so  tightly  packed  that  he 
couldn't  get  at  any  thing  he  wanted)  to  hide  their  dimin- 
ished heads.  The  fruit  laboriously  gathered  from  the  tree 
of  knowledge  by  this  latter  young  gentleman,  in  fact,  had 
been  subjected  to  so  much  pressure,  that  it  had  become  a 
kind  of  intellectual  Norfolk  Biffin,  and  had  nothing  of  its 
original  form  or  flavor  remaining.  Master  Bitherstonc  now^ 
on  whom  the  forcing  system  had  the  happier  and  not 
uncommon  effect  of  leaving  no  impression  whatever,  when 
the  forcing  apparatus  ceased  to  work  was  in  a  much  more 
comfortable  plight ;  and  being  then  on  ship-board,  bound 
for  Bengal,  found  himself  forgetting  with  such  admirable 
rapidity,  that  it  was  doubtful  whether  his  declensions  of 
noun-substantives  would  hold  out  to  the  end  of  the  voyage. 

When  Doctor  Blimber,  in  pursuance  of  the  usual  course, 
would  have  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  on  the  morning  of 
the  party,  "  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  next  month,"  he  departed  from  his  usual 
course,  and  said,  "  Gentlemen,  when  our  friend  Cincinnatus 
.  retired  to  his  farm,  he  did  not  present  to  the  senate  any 
Roman  whom  he  sought  to  nominate  as  his  successor.  But 
there  is  a  Roman  here,"  said  Doctor'  Blimber,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  *'  adMescens 
ijnprimis  gravis  et  doctus,  gentlemen,  whom  I,  a  retiring?;  Cin- 
cinnatus, wish  to  present  to  my  little  senate  as  their  future 
dictator.  Gentlemen,  we  will  resume  our  studies  on  the 
twenty-fifth  of  next  month,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.  A."  At  this  (which  Doctor  Blimber  had  pre- 
viously called  upon  all  the  parents,  and  urbanely  explained) 
the  young  gentlemen  cheered  ;  and  Mr.  Tozer,  on  behalf  ot 
the  rest,  instantly  presented  the  doctor  with  a  silver  ink- 
stand, in  a  speech  containing  very  little  of  the  mother- 
tongue,  but  fifteen  quotations  from  the  Latin,  and  seven 
from  the  Greek,  which  moved  the  younger  of  the  young 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  S41 

gentlemen  to  discontent  and  envy  ;  they  remarking,  *'  Oh, 
ah  !  It  was  all  very  well  for  old  Tozer,  but  they  didn't  sub- 
scribe money  for  old  Tozer  to  show  off  with,  they  sup- 
posed ;  did  they  ?  What  business  was  it  of  old  Tozer's 
more  than  any  body  else's  ?  It  wasn't  his  ink-stand.  Why 
couldn't  he  leave  the  boys'  property  alone  ?  "  and  murmur- 
ing other  expressions  of  their  dissatisfaction,  which  seemed 
to  find  a  greater  relief  in  calling  him  old  Tozer,  than  in  any 
other  available  vent. 

Not  a  word  had  been  said  to  the  young  gentlemen,  or  a 
hint  dropped,  of  any  thing  like  a  contemplated  marriage 
between  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  and  the  fair  Cornelia  Blimber. 
Doctor  Blimber,  especially,  seemed  to  take  pains  to  look  as 
if  nothing  would  surprise  him  more  ;  but  it  was  perfectly 
well  known  to  all  the  young  gentlemen  nevertheless,  and 
when  they  departed  for  the  society  of  their  relations  and 
friends,  they  took  leave  of  Mr.  Feeder  with  awe. 

Mr.  Feeder's  most  romantic  visions  were  fulfilled.  The 
doctor  had  determined  to  paint  the  house  outside,  and  put 
it  in  thorough  repair  ;  and  to  give  up  the  business,  and  to 
give  up  Cornelia.  The  painting  and  repairing  began  upon 
the  very  day  of  the  young  gentlemen's  departure,  and  now, 
behold  !  the  wedding  morning  was  come,  and  Cornelia,  in  a 
new  pair  of  spectacles,  was  waiting  to  be  led  to  the 
hymeneal  altar. 

^  The  doctor  with  his  learned  legs,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  in  a 
lilac  bonnet,  and  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  with  his  long  knuckles 
and  his  bristly  head  of  hair,  and  Mr.  Feeder's  brother,  the 
Reverend  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  who  was  to  perform  the 
ceremony,  were  all  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
CorneHa'with  her  orange-flowers  and  bridesmaids  had  just 
come  down,  and  looked,  as  of  old,  a  little  squeezed  in 
appearance,  but  very  charming,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
the  weak-eyed  young  man,  in  a  loud  voice,  made  the  follow- 
ing proclamation  '- 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  !  " 

Upon  which  there   entered   Mr.    Toots,  grown   extremely 
stout,  and  on  his   arm  a  lady  very  handsomely  and  becom- 
ingly dressed,  with  very  bright  black  eyes. 
_    '*  Mrs.  Blimber,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  allow  me  to  present  my 
wife." 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  delighted  to  receive  her.     Mrs.  Blimber 
was  a  little  condescending,  but  extremely  kind. 

"  And  as  you've  known  me  for  a  long  time,  you  know," 


842  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

said  Mr.  Toots,  "  let  me  assure  you  that  she  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  women  that  ever  lived." 

"  My  dear  !  "  remonstrated  Mrs.  Toots. 

*'  Upon  my  word  and  honor,  she  is,"  said  Mr.  Toots.  "I 
^ — I  assure  you,  Mrs.  Blimber,  she's  a  m.ost  extraordinary 
woman." 

Mrs.  Toots  laughed  merrily,  and  Mrs.  Blimber  led  her  to 
Cornelia.  Mr.  Toots  having  paid  his  respects  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  having  saluted  his  old  preceptor,  Avho  said,  in  allu- 
sion to  his  conjugal  state,  "  Well,  Toots,  weli,  Toots  So 
you  are  one  of  us,  are  you.  Toots  ? " — retired  with  Mr. 
Feeder,  B.A.,    into  a  window. 

Mr.  Feeder,  B.A.,  being  in  great  spirits,  made  a  spar  at 
Mr.  Toots,  and  tapped  him  skillfully  with  the  back  of  his 
hand  on  the  breast-bone. 

"  Well,  old  Buck  !  "  said  Mr.  Feeder,  with  a  laugh.  "  Well ! 
Here  we  are.     Taken  in  and  done  for.     Eh  ?  " 

''  Feeder,"  returned  Mr.  Toots.  *'  I  give  you  joy.  If 
you're  as — as — ^^as  perfectly  blissful  in  a  matrimonial  life  as  I 
am  myself,  you'll  have  nothing  to  desire." 

'*  I  don't  forget  my  old  friends,  you  see,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 
*'  I  ask  'em  to  my  wedding.  Toots." 

"Feeder,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  gravely,  "the  fact  is,  that 
there  were  several  circumstances  which  prevented  me  from 
communicating  with  you  until  after  my  marriage  had  been 
solemnized.  In  the  first  place,  I  had  made  a  perfect  brute 
of  myself  to  you  on  the  subject  of  Miss  Dombey  ;  and  I  felt 
that  if  you  were  asked  to  any  wedding  of  mine,  you  would 
naturally  expect  that  it  was  with  Miss  Dombey,  which 
involved  explanations  that,  upon  my  word  and  honor,  at 
that  crisis,  would  have  knocked  me  completely  over.  In 
the  second  place,  our  wedding  was  strictly  private  ;  there 
being  nobody  present  but  one  iriend  of  myself  and  Mrs. 
Toots's,  who  is  a  captain  in — I  don't  exactly  know  in  what," 
said  Mr.  Toots,  "  but  it's  of  no  consequence.  I  hope, 
Feeder,  that  in  writing  a  statement  of  what  had  occurred 
before  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  went  abroad  upon  our  foreign 
tour,  I  fully  discharged  the  offices  of  friendship." 

"  Toots,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Feeder,  shaking  his  hands,  "  I 
was  joking." 

"  And  now.  Feeder,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  should  be  glad 
to  know  what  you  think  of  my  union." 

"  Capital  !  "  returned  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  You   think  it's   capital,    do    you,   Feeder  ? "    said     Mr, 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  843 

Toots,  solemnly.    "  Then  how  capital  must  it  be  to  me.    For 
you  can  never  know  what  an  extraordinary  woman  that  is." 

Mr.  Feeder  Avas  willing  to  take  it  for  granted.  But  Mr. 
Toots  shook  his  head,  and  wouldn't  hear  of  that  being  pos- 
sible. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  what  /  wanted  in  a  wife 
was — in  short,  was  sense.  Money,  Feeder,  I  had.  Sense  I 
— I  had  not,  particularly." 

"  Mr.  Feeder  murmured,  "  Oh  yes,  you  had.  Toots  !  "  but 
Mr.  Toots  said  : 

"  No,  Feeder,  I  had  not.  Why  should  I  disguise  it  ?  I 
had  7iot.  I  knew  that  sense  was  there,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
stretching  out  his  hand  toward  his  wife,  "  in  perfect  heaps. 
I  had  no  relation  to  object  or  be  offended,  on  the  score  of 
station  ;  for  I  had  no  relation.  I  have  never  had  any 
body  belonging  to  me  but  my  guardian,  and  him,  Feeder, 
I  have  always  considered  as  a  pirate  and  a  corsair. 
Therefore,  you  know  it  was  not  likely,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
'*  that  I  should  take  his  opinion." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Feeder. 

"  Accordingly,"  resumed  Mr.  Toots,  "  I  acted  on  my  own. 
Bright  was  the  day  on  which  I  did  so  !  Feeder  !  Nobody 
but  myself  can  tell  what  the  capacity  of  that  woman's  mind  is. 
If  ever  the  rights  of  women,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  are 
properly  attended  to,  it  will  be  through  her  powerful  intel- 
lect.— Susan,  my  dear  !  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  looking  abruptly 
out  of  the  window-curtains,  "  pray  do  not  exert  yourself  !  " 

''  My  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Toots,  "  I  was  only  talking." 

"  But,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. You  really  must  be  careful.  Do  not,  my  dear  Susan, 
exert  yourself.  She's  so  easily  excited,"  said  Mr.  Toots, 
apart  to  Mrs.  Blimber,  "  and  then  she  forgets  the  medical 
man  altogether," 

Mrs.  Blimber  was  impressing  on  Mrs.  Toots  the  necessity 
of  caution,  when  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  offered  her  his  arm,  and 
led  her  down  to  the  carriages  that  were  in  waiting  to  go  to 
church.  Doctor  Blimber  escorted  Mrs.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots 
escorted  the  fair  bride,  around  whose  lambent  spectacles 
two  gauzy  little  bridesmaids  fluttered  like  moths.  Mr. 
Feeder's  brother,  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  had  already 
gone  on,  in  advance,  to  assume  his  official  functions. 

The  ceremony  was  performed  in  an  admirable  manner. 
Cornelia,  with  her  crisp  little  curls,  "went  in,"  as  the 
Chicken  might  have  said,  with  great  composure  ;  and  Doc- 


844   '  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

tor  Blimber  gave  her  away,  like  a  man  who  had  quite  made 
up  his  mind  to  it.  The  gauzy  Httle  bridesmaids  appeared 
to  suffer  most.  Mrs.  Blimber  was  affected,  but  gently  so  ; 
and  told  The  Reverend  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  M.  A.,  on  the 
way  home,  that  if  she  could  only  have  seen  Cicero  in  his 
retirement  at  Tusculum,  she  would  not  have  had  a  wish, 
now,  ungratified. 

There  was  a  breakfast  afterward,  limited  to  the  same  small 
party  ;  at  which  the  spirits  of  Mr.  Feeder,  B.  A.,  were  tre- 
mendous, and  so  communicated  themselves  to  Mrs.  Toots 
that  Mr.  Toots  was  several  times  heard  to  observe,  across 
the  table,  ''  My  dear  Susan,  do7it  exert  yourself  !  "  The 
best  of  it  was,  that  Mr.  Toots  felt  it  incumbent  on  him  to 
make  a  speech  ;  and  in  spite  of  a  whole  code  of  telegraphic 
dissuasions  from  Mrs,  Toots,  appeared  on  his  legs  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life. 

"  I  really,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  in  this  house,  where  what- 
ever was  done  to  me  in  the  way  of — of  any  mental  confusion 
sometimes — which  is  of  no  consequence,  and  I  impute  to 
nobody — I  was  always  treated  like  one  of  Doctor  Blimber's 
family,  and  had  a  desk  to  myself  for  a  considerable  periods — 
can — not — allow — my  friend  Feeder  to  be — " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  ''married." 

*'  It  may  not  be  inappropriate  to  the  occasion,  or  altogether 
uninteresting,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  with  a  delighted  face,  "  to 
observe  that  my  wife  is  a  most  extraordinary  woman,  and 
would  do  this  much  better  than  myself — allow  my  friend 
Feeder  to  be  married — especially  to — " 

Mrs.  Toots  suggested  *'  to  Miss  Blimber." 

"  To  Mrs.  Feeder,  my  love!  "  said  Mr.  Toots,  in  a  subdued 
tone  of  private  discussion:  "'whom  God  hath  joined,'  you 
know,  '  let  no  man  ' — don't  you  know  ?  I  can  not  allow  my 
friend,  Feeder,  to  be  married — especially  to  Mrs.  Feeder — 
without  proposing  their — their — toasts;  and  may,"  said  Mr. 
Toots,  fixing  his  eyes  on  his  wife,  as  if  for  inspiration  in  a 
high  flight,  "  may  the  torch  of  hymen  be  the  beacon  of  joy, 
and  may  the  flowers  we  have  this  day  strewed  in  their  path 
be  the — the  banishers  of — of  gloom!  " 

Doctor  Blimber,  who  had  a  taste  for  metaphor,  was  pleased 
with  this,  and  said:  "Very  good,  Toots!  Very  well  said, 
indeed,  Toots!  "  and  nodded  his  head  and  patted  his  hands. 
Mr,  Feeder  made,  in  reply,  a  comic  speech  checkered  with 
sentiment.  Mr.  Alfred  Feeder,  ]\I.A.,  was  afterward  very 
happy   on    Doctor    and    Mrs.    Blimber;    Mr.  Feeder,  B.A., 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  845 

scarcely  less  so,  on  the  gauzy  little  bridesmaids.  Doctor 
Blimber  then,  in  a  sonorous  voice,  delivered  a  few  thoughts 
in  a  pastoral  style,  relative  to  the  rushes  among  which  it  was 
the  intention  of  himself  and  Mrs.  Blimber  to  dwell,  and  the 
bee  that  would  hum  around  their  cot.  Shortly  after  which, 
as  the  doctor's  eyes  were  twinkling  in  a  remarkable  manner, 
and  his  son-in-law  had  already  observed  that  time  was  made 
for  slaves,  and  had  inquired  whether  Mrs.  Toots  sang,  the  dis- 
creet Mrs.  Blimber  dissolved  the  sitting,  and  sent  Cornelia 
away,  very  cool  and  comfortable,  in  a  post-chaise,  with  the 
man  of  her  heart. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  withdrew  to  the  Bedford  (Mrs.  Toots 
had  been  there  before  in  old  times,  under  her  maiden  name 
of  Nipper),  and  there  found  a  letter,  which  it  took  Mr. 
Toots  such  an  enormous  time  to  read  that  Mrs.  Toots  was 
frightened. 

"  My  dear  Susan,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  fright  is  worse  than 
exertion.     Pray  be  calm!  " 

"  Who  is  it  from  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Toots. 

'*  Why,  my  love,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  "  it  is  from  Captain 
Gills.  Do  not  excite  yourself.  Walters  and  Miss  Dombey 
are  expected  home!  " 

"  My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Toots,  raising  herself  quickly  from 
the  sofa,  very  pale,  "  don't  try  to  deceive  me,  for  it's  no  use, 
they're  come  home — I  see  it  plainly  in  your  face!  " 

''  She's  a  most  extraordinary  woman! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Toots,  in  rapturous  admiration.  "  You're  perfectly  right, 
my  love,  they  have  come  home.  Miss  Dombey  has  seen  her 
father,  and  they  are  reconciled!  " 

"  Reconciled!  "  cried  Mrs.  Toots,  clapping  her  hands. 

*' My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Toots;  "pray  do  not  exert  your- 
self. Do  remember  the  medical  man!  Captain  Gills  says — 
at  least  he  don't  say,  but  I  imagine,  from  what  I  can  make 
out,  he  means — that  Miss  Dombey  has  brought  her  unfortu- 
nate father  away  from  his  old  house,  to  one  where  she  and 
Walters  are  living;  that  he  is  lying  very  ill  there — supposed 
to  be  dying;  and  that  she  attends  upon  him  night  and  day." 

Mrs.  Toots  began  to  cry  quite  bitterly. 

"My  dearest  Susan,"  replied  Mr.  Toots,  "do,  do,  if  you 
possibly  can,  remember  the  medical  man!  If  you  can't,  it's 
of  no  consequence — but  do  endeavor  to!" 

H^.s  wife,  with  her  old  manner  suddenly  restored,  so 
pathetically  entreated  him  to  take  her  to  her  precious  pet, 
her  little  mistress,  her  own  darling,  and  the  like,  that  Mr. 


846  DOMBEY    AND   SON. 

Toots,  whose  sympathy  and  admiration  were  of  the  strongest 
kind,  consented  from  his  very  heart  of  hearts;  and  they  agreed 
to  depart  immediately,  and  present  themselves  in  answer  to 
the  captain's  letter. 

Now,  some  hidden  sympathies  of  things,  or  some  coinci- 
dences, had  that  day  brought  the  captain  himself  (toward 
whom  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Toots  were  soon  journeying),  into  the 
flowery  train  of  wedlock;  not  as  a  principal,  but  as  an  acces- 
sory.    It  happened  accidentally,  and  thus: 

The  captain,  having  seen  Florence  and  her  baby  for  a 
moment,  to  his  unbounded  content,  and  having  had  a  long 
talk  with  Walter,  turned  out  for  a  walk;  feeling  it  necessary 
to  have  some  solitary  meditation  on  the  changes  of  human 
affairs,  and  to  shake  his  glazed  hat  profoundly  over  the  fall 
of  Mr.  Dombey,  for  whom  the  generosity  and  simplicity  of 
his  nature  were  awakened  in  a  lively  manner.  The  captain 
would  have  been  very  low,  indeed,  on  the  unhappy  gentle- 
man's account,  but  for  the  recollection  of  the  baby;  which 
afforded  him  such  intense  satisfaction  whenever  it  arose, 
that  he  laughed  aloud  as  he  went  along  the  street,  and, 
indeed,  more  than  once,  in  a  sudden  impulse  of  joy,  threw 
up  his  glazed  hat  and  caught  it  again;  much  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  the  spectators.  The  rapid  alternation  of  light  and 
shade  to  which  these  two  conflicting  subjects  of  reflection 
exposed  the  captain  were  so  very  trying  to  his  spirits  that 
he  felt  a  long  walk  necessary  to  his  composure;  and  as  there 
is  a  great  deal  in  the  influence  of  harmonious  associations,  he 
chose,  for  the  scene  of  this  walk,  his  old  neighborhood, 
down  among  the  mast,  oar,  and  block-makers,  ship-biscuit 
bakers,  coal-whippers,  pitch-kettles,  sailors,  canals,  docks, 
swing-bridges,  and  other  soothing  objects. 

These  peaceful  scenes,  and  particularly  the  region  of 
Limehouse-Hole  and  thereabout,  were  so  influential  in  calm- 
ing the  captain,  that  he  walked  on  with  restored  tranquillity, 
and  was,  in  fact,  regaling  himself,  under  his  breath,  with  the 
ballad  of  Lovely  Peg,  when,  on  turning  a  comer,  he  was 
suddenly  transfixed  and  rendered  speechless  by'a  triumphant 
procession  that  he  beheld  advancing  toward  him. 

This  awful  demonstration  was  headed  by  that  determined 
woman,  Mrs.  MacStinger,  who,  preserving  a  countenance  of 
inexorable  resolution,  and  wearing  conspicuously  attached  to 
her  obdurate  bosom  a  stupendous  watch  and  appendages, 
which  the  captain  recognized  at  a  glance  as  the  property 
of    Bunsby,  conducted  under  her  arm  no  other  than  that 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  847 

sagacious  mariner;  he,  with  the  distraught  and  mel- 
ancholy visage  of  a  captive  borne  into  a  foreign  land, 
meekly  resigning  himself  to  her  will.  Behind  them  appeared 
the  young  MacStingers  in  a  body,  exulting.  Behind  them, 
two  ladies  of  a  terrible  and  steadfast  aspect,  leading  between 
them  a  short  gentleman  in  a  tall  hat,  who  likewise  exulted.  In 
the  wake  appeared  Bunsby's  boy,  bearing  umbrellas.  The 
whole  were  in  good  marching  order  ;  and  a  dreadful  smart- 
ness that  pervaded  the  party  would  have  sufficiently 
announced,  if  the  intrepid  countenances  of  the  ladies  had 
been  wanting,  that  it  was  a  procession  of  sacrifice,  and  that 
the  victim  was  Bunsby. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  captain  was  to  run  away.  This 
also  appeared  to  be  the  first  impulse  of  Bunsby,  hopeless  as 
its  execution  must  have  proved.  But  a  cry  of  recognition 
proceeding  from  the  party,  and  Alexander  MacStinger  run- 
ning up  to  the  captain  with  open  arms,  the  captain  struck. 

"  Well,  Cap'en  Cuttle  !  "  said  Mrs.  MacStinger.  "  This  is 
indeed  a  meeting  !  I  bear  no  malice  now.  Cap'en  Cuttle — 
you  needn't  fear  that  I'm  agoing  to  cast  any  reflections.  I 
hope  to  go  to  the  altar  in  another  spirit."  Here  Mrs.  Mac- 
Stinger paused,  and  drawing  herself  up, and  inflating  her  bosom 
with  a  long  breath,  said,  in  allusion  to  the  victim,  "  ]\Iy  hus- 
band, Cap'en  Cuttle  ! " 

The  abject  Bunsby  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  th^ 
left,  nor  at  his  bride,  nor  at  his  friend,  but  straight  before 
him  at  nothing.  The  captain  putting  out  his  hand,  Bunsby 
put  out  his  ;  but,  in  answer  to  the  captain's  greeting,  spake 
no  word. 

"  Cap'en  Cuttle,"  says  Mrs.  MacStinger,  "  if  you  would 
wish  to  heal  up  past  animosities,  and  to  see  the  last  of  your 
friend,  my  husband,  as  a  single  person,  we  should  be  'appy 
of  your  company  to  chapel.  Here  is  a  lady  here,"  said  Mrs. 
MacStinger,  turning  round  to  the  more  intrepid  of  the  two, 
"  my  bridesmaid,  that  will  be  glad  of  your  protection,  Cap'en 
Cuttle." 

The  short  gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  who  it  appeared  was 
the  husband  of  the  other  lady,  and  who  evidently  exulted  at 
the  reduction  of  a  fellow-creature  to  his  own  condition,  gave 
place  at  this,  and  resigned  the  lady  to  Captain  Cuttle.  The 
lady  immediately  seized  him,  and,  observing  that  there  was 
no  time  to  lose,  gave  the  word,  in  a  strong  voice,  to  ad- 
vance. 

The   cajDtain's   concern  for  his  friend  not   unmingled,  at 


848  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

first,  with  some  concern  for  himself — for  a  shadowy  terror 
that  he  might  be  married  by  violence,  possessed  him,  until 
his  knowledge  of  the  service  came  to  his  relief,  and  remem- 
bering the  legal  obligation  of  saying  ''  I  will,"  he  felt  himself 
personally  safe  so  long  as  he  resolved,  if  asked  any  question, 
distinctly  to  reply,  "  I  won't,"  threw  him  into  a  profuse  per- 
spiration ;  and  rendered  him  for  a  time,  insensible  to  the 
movements  of  the  procession,  of  which  he  now  formed  a 
feature,  and  to  the  conversation  of  his  fair  companion.  But 
as  he  became  less  agitated,  he  learned  from  this  lady  that 
she  was  the  widow  of  a  Mr.  Bokum,  who  had  held  an 
employment  in  the  custom  house  ;  that  she  was  the  dearest 
friend  of  Mrs.  MacStinger,  whom  she  considered  a  pattern 
for  her  sex  ;_  that  she  had  often  heard  of  the  captain, 
and  now  hoped  that  he  had  repented  of  his  past 
life  ;  that  she  trusted  Mr.  Bunsby  knew  what  a 
blessing  he  had  gained,  but  that  she  feared  men  seldom 
did  know  what  such  blessings  were  until  they  had  lost  them; 
vv^ith  more  to  the  same  purpose. 

All  this  time,  the  captain  could  not  but  observe  that  Mrs. 
Bokum  kept  her  eyes  steadily  on  the  bridegroom,  and  that 
whenever  they  came  near  a  court  or  other  narrow  turning 
which  appeared  favorable  for  flight,  she  was  on  the  alert  to 
cut  him  off  if  he  attempted  escape.  The  other  lady,  too,  as 
well  as  her  husband,  the  short  gentleman  with  the  tall  hat, 
were  plainly  on  guard,  according  to  a  preconcerted  plan  ; 
and  the  wretched  man  was  so  secured  by  Mrs.  MacStinger, 
that  any  effort  at  self-preservation  by  flight  was  rendered 
futile.  This,  indeed,  was  apparent  to  the  mere  populace, 
who  expressed  their  perception  of  the  fact  by  jeers  and  cries; 
to  all  of  which  the  dread  MacStinger  was  inflexibly  indiffer- 
ent, while  Bunsby  himself  appeared  in  a  state  of  unconscious- 
ness. 

The  captain  made  many  attempts  to  accost  the  philoso- 
pher, if  only  in  a  monosyllable  or  a  signal  ;  but  always  failed, 
in  consequence  of  the  vigilance  of  the  guard,  and  the  dif- 
ficulty at  all  times  peculiar  to  Bunsby's  constitution, of  having 
his  attention  aroused  by  any  outward  and  visible  sign  what- 
ever. Thus  they  approached  the  chapel,  a  neat  whitewashed 
edifice,  recently  engaged  by  the  Reverend  Melchisedec  How- 
ler, who  had  consented,  on  very  urgent  solicitation,  to  give 
the  world  another  two  years  of  existence,  but  had  informed 
his  followers  that,  then,  it  must  positively  go. 

While  the  Reverend  Melchisedec  was  offering  up  some 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  S49 

extemporary  orisons,   the  captain   found    an  opportunity  of 
growling  in  the  bridegroom's  ear: 

"  What  cheer,  my  lad,  what  cheer  ?  " 

To   which    Bunsby    replied,  with  a  forgetfulness  of   the 
Reverend  Melchisedcc,  which  nothing  but  his  desperate  cir- 
cumstance could  have  excused  : 
''  D— d  bad." 

"  Jack  Bunsby,"  whispered  the  captain,  '*  do  you  do  this 
here  o'  your  own  free-wi!!  ?  " 
Mr.  Bunsby  answered  "  No." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then,  my  lad  ?  "  inquired  the  captain, 
not  unnaturally. 

Bunsby,  still  looking,  and  always  looking  with  an  immov- 
able countenance,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  world,  made  no 
reply. 

"  Why  not  sheer  off  ? "  said  the  captain. 
*'  Eh  ? "  whispered  Bunsby,   with  a  momentary  gleam  of 
hope. 

*'  Sheer  off,"  said  the  captain. 

**  Where's  the  good  ?  "  retorted  the  forlorn  sage.  **  She'd 
capter  me  agen." 

"  Try  !  "  replied  the  captain.  "  Cheer  up  !  Come  !  Now's 
your  time.     Sheer  off.  Jack  Bunsby  !  " 

Jack  Bunsby,  however,  instead  of  profiting  by  the  advice, 
said,  in  a  doleful  whisper  : 

*'  It  all  began  in  that  there  chest  o'  yourn.  Why  did  I  ever 
conwoy  her  into  port  that  night !  " 

"  My  lad,"  faltered  the  captain,  "  I  thought  as  you  had 
come  over  her  ;  not  as  she  had  come  over  you.  A  man  as 
has  got  such  opinions  as  you  have  !  " 

Mr.  Bunsby  merely  uttered  a  suppressed  groan. 
"  Come  !  "  said  the  captain,  nudging  him  with  his  elbow, 
"  now's  your  time  !  Sheer  off  !  I'll  cover  your  retreat.     The 
time's  flying.     Bunsby!     It's  for  liberty.     Will  you  once  ?  " 
Bunsby  was  immovable. 

"Bunsby  !  "  whispered  the  captain,  "  will  you  twice  ?  " 
Bunsby  wouldn't  twice. 

"  Bunsby  !  "  urged  the  captain,  "  it's  for  liberty  ;  will  you 
three  times  ?     Now  or  never  !  " 

Bunsby  didn't  then,  and  didn't  ever  ;  for  Mrs.  MacStinger 
immediately  aftervrard  married  him. 

One  of  the  most  frightful  circumstances  of  the  ceremony 
to  the  captain  was  the  deadly  interest  exhibited  therein  by 
Juliana    MacStinger ;  and  the  fatal  concentration    of    her 


850  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

faculties,  with  which  that  promising  child,  already  the  image 
of  her  parent,  observed  the  whole  proceedings.  The  cap- 
tain saw  in  this  a  succession  of  man-traps  stretching  out 
infinitely  ;  a  series  of  ages  of  oppression  and  coercion, 
through  which  the  sea-faring  line  was  doomed.  It  was  a 
more  memorable  sight  than  the  unflinching  steadiness  of 
Mrs.  Bokum  and  the  other  lady,  the  exultation  of  the  short 
gentleman  in  the  tall  hat,  or  even  the  fell  inflexibility  of 
Mrs.  MacStinger.  The  Master  MacStingers  understood  little 
of  what  was  going  on,  and  cared  less  ;  being  chiefly 
engaged,  during  the  ceremony,  in  treading  on  one  another's 
half-boots  ;  but  the  contrast  afforded  by  those  wretched 
infants  only  set  off  and  adorned  the  precocious  woman  in 
Juliana.  Another  year  or  two,  the  captain  thought,  and  to 
lodge  where  that  child  was  would  be  destruction. 

The  ceremony  was  concluded  by  a  general  spring  of  the 
young  family  on  Mr.  Bunsby,  whom  they  hailed  by  the 
endearing  name  of  father,  and  from  whom  they  solicited 
half-pence.  These  gushes  of  affection  over,  the  procession 
was  about  to  issue  forth  again,  when  it  was  delayed  for  some 
little  time  by  an  unexpected  transport  on  the  part  of  Alex- 
ander MacStinger.  That  dear  child,  it  seemed,  connecting 
a  chapel  with  tombstones,  when  it  was  entered  for  any 
purpose  apart  from  the  ordinary  religious  exercises,  could 
not  be  persuaded  but  that  his  mother  was  now  to  be 
decently  interred,  and  lost  to  him  forever.  In  the  anguish 
of  this  conviction,  he  screamed  with  astonishing  force,  and 
turned  black  in  the  face.  However  touching  these  marks  of 
a  tender  disposition  were  to  his  mother,  it  was  not  in  the 
character  of  that  remarkable  woman  to  permit  her  recogni- 
tion of  them  to  degenerate  into  weakness.  Therefore,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  to  convince  his  reason  by  shakes,  pokes, 
bawlings  out,  and  similar  applications  to  his  head,  she  led  hini 
into  the  air,  and  tried  another  method  ;  which  was  mani- 
fested to  the  marriage  party  by  a  quick  succession  of  sharp 
sounds,  resembling  applause,  and  subsequently,  by  their 
seeing  Alexander  in  contact  with  the  coolest  paving-stone  in 
the  court,  greatly  flushed,  and  loudly  lamenting. 

The  procession  being  then  in  a  condition  to  form  itself 
once  more,  and  repair  to  Brig  Place,  where  a  marriage 
feast  was  in  readiness,  returned  as  it  had  come  ;  not  with- 
out the  receipt,  by  Bunsby,  of  many  humorous  congratula- 
tions from  the  populace  on  his  recently-acquired  happiness. 
The  captain  accompanied  it  as  far  as  the  house  door,  but, 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  851 

being  made  uneasy  by  the  gentler  manner  of  Mrs.  Bokum, 
who  now  that  she  was  relieved  from  her  engrossing  duty — for 
the  watchfulness  and  alacrity  of  the  ladies  sensibly  dimin- 
ished when  the  bridegroom  was  safely  married — had  greater 
leisure  to  show  an  interest  in  his  behalf,  there  left  it  and 
the  captive  ;  faintly  pleading  an  appointment,  and  promis- 
ing to  return  presently.  The  captain  had  another  cause  for 
uneasiness,  in  remorsefully  reflecting  that  he  had  been  the 
first  means  of  Bunsby's  entrapment,  though  certainly  without 
intending  it,  and  through  his  unbounded  faith  in  the 
resources  of  that  philosopher. 

To  go  back  to  old  Sol  Gills  at  the  wooden  Midshipman's, 
and  not  first  go  around  to  ask  how  Mr.  Dombey  fared — 
albeit  the  house  where  he  lay  was  out  of  London,  and 
away  on  the  borders  of  a  fresh  heath — was  quite  out  of  the 
captain's  course.  So  he  got  a  lift  when  he  was  tired,  and 
made  out  the  journey  gayly. 

The  blinds  were  pulled  down,  and  the  house  so  quiet,  that 
the  captain  was  almost  afraid  to  knock  ;  but  listening  at  the 
door,  he  heard  low  voices  within,  very  near  it,  and,  knocking 
softly,  was  admitted  by  Mr.  Toots.  Mr.  Toots  and  his  wife, 
had,  in  fact,  just  arrived  there  ;  having  been  at  the  midship- 
man's to  seek  him,  and   having  there  obtained  the  address. 

They  were  not  so  recently  arrived,  but  that  Mrs.  Toots 
had  caught  the  baby  from  somebody,  taken  it  in  her  arms, 
and  sat  down  on  the  stairs,  hugging  and  fondling  it.  Flor- 
ence was  stooping  down  beside  her  ;  and,  no  one  could  have 
said  which  Mrs,  Toots  was  hugging  and  fondling  most,  the 
mother  or  the  child,  or  which  was  the  tenderer,  Florence  of 
Mrs.  Toots,  or  Mrs.  Toots  of  her,  or  both  of  the  baby — it 
was  such  a  little  group  of  love  and  agitation. 

"  And  is  your  pa  very  ill,  my  darling  dear  Miss  Floy  ?  " 
asked  Susan. 

''  He  is  very,  very  ill,"  said  Florence.  '*  But,  Susan,  dear, 
you  must  not  speak  to  me  as  you  used  to  speak.  And 
what's  this  ? "  said  Florence,  touching  her  clothes,  in  amaze- 
ment. "  Your  old  dress,  dear  ?  Your  old  cap,  curls,  and 
all?" 

Susan  burst  into  tears,  and  showered  kisses  on  the  little 
hand  that  had  touched  her  so  wonderingly. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  stepping  for- 
ward, "  I'll  explain.  She's  the  most  extraordinary  woman. 
There  are  not  many  to  equal  her  !  She  has  always  said — 
she  said  before  we  were  married,  and  has  said  to  this  day — 


852  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

that  whenever  you  came  home,  she'd  come  to  you  in  no 
dress  but  the  dress  she  used  to  serve  you  in,  for  fear  she 
might  seem  strange  to  you,  and  you  might  like  her  less.  I 
admire  the  dress  myself,"  said  Mr.  Toots,  '*  of  all  things.  I 
adore  her  in  it  !  My  dear  Miss  Dombey,  she'll  be  your  maid 
again,  your  nurse,  all  that  she  ever  was,  and  more.  There's 
no  change  in  her.  But  Susan,  my  dear,'  said  Mr.  Toots, 
who  had  spoken  with  great  feeling  and  high  admiration, 
*'  all  I  ask  is,  that  you'll  remember  the  medical  man,  and 
not  exert  yourself  too  much." 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

RELENTING. 

Florence  had  need  of  help.  Her  father's  need  of  it  was 
sore,  and  made  the  aid  of  her  old  friend  invaluable.  Death 
stood  at  his  pillow.  A  shade,  already,  of  what  he  had  been, 
shattered  in  mind,  and  perilously  sick  in  body,  he  laid  his 
weary  head  down  on  the  bed  his  daughter's  hands  prepared 
for  him,  and  had  never  raised  it  since. 

She  was  always  with  him.  He  knew  her,  generally;  though, 
in  the  wandering  of  his  brain,  he  often  confused  the  circum- 
stances under  which  he  spoke  to  her.  Thus  he  would  address 
her,  sometimes,  as  if  his  boy  was  newly  dead  ;  and  would 
tell  her,  that  although  he  had  said  nothing  of  her  ministering 
at  the  little  bedside,  yet  he  had  seen  it — he  had  seen  it  ;  and 
then  would  hide  his  face  and  sob,  and  put  out  his  worn  hand. 
Sometimes  he  would  ask  her  for  herself.  '*  Where  is 
Florence?" — "I  am  here,  papa,  I  am  here." — ''I  don't 
know  her  !  "  he  would  cry.  "  We  have  been  parted  so  long, 
that  I  don't  know  her  ! "  and  then  a  staring  dread 
would  be  upon  him,  until  she  could  soothe  his  perturbation  ; 
and  recall  the  tears  she  tried  so  hard,  at  other  times,  to  dry. 

He  rambled  through  the  scenes  of  his  old  pursuits — through 
many  where  Florence  lost  him  as  she  listened — sometimes  for 
hours.  He  would  repeat  that  childish  question,  '*  What  is 
money?"  and  ponder  on  it,  and  think  about  it,  and 
reason  with  himself,  more  or  less  connectedly,  for  a  good 
answer  ;  as  if  it  had  never  been  proposed  to  him  until  that 
moment.  He  would  go  on  with  a  musing  repetition  of  the 
title  of  his  old  firm  twenty  thousand  times,  and  at  every  one 
of  them  would  turn  his  head  upon  his  pillow.     He  would 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  853 

count  his  children — one — two — stop,  and  go  back,  and  begin 
again  in  the  same  way. 

But  this  was  when  his  mind  was  in  its  most  distracted 
state.  In  all  the  other  phases  of  its  illness,  and  in  those  to 
which  it  was  most  constant,  it  always  turned  on  Florence. 
What  he  would  oftenest  do  was  this :  he  would  recall  that 
night  he  had  so  recently  remembered,  the  night  on  which 
she  came  down  to  his  room,  and  would  imagine  that  his 
heart  smote  him,  and  that  he  went  out  after  her,  and  up  the 
stairs  to  seek  her.  Then,  confounding  that  time  with  the 
later  days  of  the  many  footsteps,  he  would  be  amazed  at  their 
number,  and  begin  to  count  them  as  he  followed  her.  Here, 
of  a  sudden,  was  a  bloody  footstep  going  on  among  the 
others  ;  and  after  it  there  began  to  be,  at  intervals,  doors 
standing  open,  through  which  certain  terrible  pictures  were 
seen,  in  mirrors,  of  haggard  men,  concealing  something  in 
their  breasts.  Still,  among  the  many  footsteps  and  the 
bloody  footsteps  here  and  there,  was  the  step  of  Florence. 
Still  she  was  going  on  before.  Still  the  restless  mind  went, 
following  and  counting,  ever  further,  ever  higher,  as  to  the 
summit  of  a  mighty  tower  that  it  took  years  to  climb. 

One  day  he  inquired  if  that  were  not  Susan  who  had 
spoken  a  long  while  ago. 

Florence  said,  '^  Yes,  dear  papa;  "  and  asked  him  would 
he  like  to  see  her  ? 

He  said,  "  Very  much."  And  Susan,  with  no  little  trepi- 
dation, showed  herself  at  his  bedside. 

It  seemed  a  great  relief  to  him.  He  begged  her  not  to  go; 
to  understand  that  he  forgave  her  what  she  had  said  ;  and 
that  she  was  to  stay.  Florence  and  he  were  very  different  now, 
he  said,  and  very  happy.  Let  her  look  at  this  !  He  meant 
his  drawing  the  gentle  head  down  to  his  pillow,  and  laying  it 
beside  him. 

He  remained  like  this  for  days  and  weeks.  At  length, 
lying,  the  faint,  feeble  semblance  of  a  man,  upon  his  bed, 
and  speaking  in  a  voice  so  low  that  they  could  only  hear 
him  by  listening  very  near  to  his  lips,  he  became  quiet.  It 
was  dimly  pleasant  to  him  now  to  lie  there,  with  the  window 
open,  looking  out  at  the  summer  sky  and  the  trees  ;  and,  in 
the  evening,  at  the  sunset.  '  To  watch  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds  and  leaves,  and  seem  to  feel  a  sympathy  with 
shadows.  It  was  natural  that  he  should.  To  him  life  and 
the  world  were  nothing  else. 

He  began  to   show  now  that  he  thought  of  Florence's 


854  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

fatigue  ;  and  often  taxed  his  weakness  to  whisper  to  her, 
"  Go  and  walk,  my  dearest,  in  the  sweet  air.  Go  to  your 
good  husband  !  "  One  time,  when  Walter  was  in  his  room,  he 
beckoned  him  to  come  near,  and  to  stoop  down  ;  and  press- 
ing his  hand,  whispered  an  assurance  to  him  that  he 
knew  he  could  trust  him  with  his  child  when  he  was  dead. 

It  chanced  one  evening,  toward  sunset,  when  Florence  and 
Walter  were  sitting  in  his  room  together,  as  he  liked  to  see 
them,  that  Florence,  having  her  baby  in  her  arms,  began  in 
a  low  voice  to  sing  to  the  little  fellow,  and  sang  the  old  tune 
she  had  so  often  sung  to  the  dead  child.  He  could  not  bear 
it  at  the  time  ;  he  held  up  his  trembling  hand,  imploring  her 
to  stop  ;  but  next  day  he  asked  her  to  repeat  it  and  to  do  so 
often  of  an  evening,  which  she  did.  He  listening,  with  his 
face  turned  away. 

Florence  was  sitting  on  a  certain  time  by  his  window, 
with  her  work-basket  between  her  and  her  old  attendant, 
who  was  still  her  faithful  companion.  He  had  fallen  into  a 
doze.  It  was  a  beautiful  evening,  with  two  hours  of  light  to 
come  yet;  and  the  tranquillity  and  quiet  made  Florence  very 
thoughtful.  She  was  lost  to  every  thing  for  the  moment, 
but  the  occasion  when  the  so  altered  figure  on  the  bed  had 
first  presented  her  to  her  beautiful  mamma  ;  when  a  touch 
from  Waller  leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  made  her 
start. 

"  My  dear,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  some  one  down-stairs 
who  wishes  to  speak  to  you." 

She  fancied  Walter  looked  grave,  and  asked  him  if  any 
thing  had  happened. 

"  No,  no,  my  love  !  "  said  Walter,  "  I  have  seen  the  gen- 
tleman myself,  and  spoken  with  him.  Nothing  has  happened. 
Will  you  come  ?  " 

Florence  put  her  arm  through  his  ;  and  confiding  her 
father  to  the  black-eyed  Mrs.  Toots,  who  sat  as  brisk  and 
smart  at  her  work  as  black-eyed  woman  could,  accompanied 
her  husband  down  stairs.  In  the  pleasant  little  parlor  open- 
ing on  the  garden  sat  a  gentleman,  who  rose  to  advance 
toward  her  when  she  came  in,  but  turned  off,  by  reason  of 
some  peculiarity  in  his  legs,  and  was  only  stopped  by  the 
table. 

Florence  then  remembered  Cousin  Feenix,  whom  she  had 
not  at  first  recognized  in  the  shade  of  the  leaves.  Cousin 
Feenix  took  her  hand  and  congratulated  her  upon  her  mar- 
riage. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  855 

"  I  could  have  wished,  I  am  sure,"  said  Cousin  Feenix, 
sitting  down  as  Florence  sat,  "  to  have  had  an  earlier  oppor- 
tunity of  offering  my  congratulations  ;  but,  in  point  of  fact, 
so  many  painful  occurrences  have  happened,  treading,  as  a 
man  may  say,  on  one  another's  heels,  that  I  have  been  in  a 
devil  of  a  state  myself,  and  perfectly  unfit  for  every  descrip- 
tion of  society.  The  only  description  of  society  I  have  kept 
has  been  my  own  ;  and  it  certainly  is  any  thing  but  flattering 
to  a  man's  good  opinion  of  his  own  resources  to  knoAv  that, 
in  point  of  fact,  he  has  the  capacity  of  boring  himself  to  a 
perfectly  unlimited  extent." 

Florence  divined,  from  some  indefinable  constraint  and 
anxiety  in  this  gentleman's  manner — which  was  always  a 
gentleman's,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  little  eccentricities  that 
attached  to  it — and  from  Walter's  manner  no  less,  that 
something  more  immediately  tending  to  some  object  was  to 
follow  this. 

"  I  have  been  mentioning  to  my  friend  Mr.  Gay,  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  have  the  honor  of  calling  him  so,"  said  Cousin 
Feenix,  "  that  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  my  friend  Dombey 
is  very  decidedly  mending,  I  trust  my  friend  Dombey 
will  not  allow  his  mind  to  be  too  much  preyed  upon  by  any 
mere  loss  of  fortune.  I  can  not  say  that  I  have  ever  experi- 
enced any  very  great  loss  of  fortune  myself  ;  never  having 
had,  in  point  of  fact,  any  great  amount  of  fortune  to  lose. 
But  as  much  as  I  could  lose,  I  have  lost ;  and  I  don't  find 
that  I  particularly  care  about  it.  I  know  my  friend  Dombey 
to  be  a  devilish  honorable  man  ;  and  it's  calculated  to 
console  my  friend  Dombey  very  much,  to  know  that  this  is 
the  universal  sentiment.  Even  Tommy  Screwzer — a  man 
of  an  extremely  bilious  habit,  with  whom  my  friend  Gay 
is  probably  acquainted — can  not  say  a  syllable  in  disputa- 
tion of  the  fact." 

Florence  felt,  more  than  ever,  that  there  was  something 
to  come  ;  and  looked  earnestly  for  it.  So  earnestly,  that 
Cousin  Feenix  answered,  as  if  she  had  spoken. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ''  that  my  friend  Gay 
and  myself  have  been  discussing  the  propriety  of  entreat- 
ing a  favor  at  your  hands  ;  and  that  I  have  the  consent  of 
my  friend  Gay — who  has  met  me  in  an  exceedingly  kind 
and  open  manner,  for  which  I  am  very  much  indebted  to 
him — to  solicit  it.  I  am  sensible  that  so  amiable  a  lady  as 
the  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey 
will  not  require  much  urging  ;  but  I  am  happy  to  know  that 


856  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

I  am  supported  by  my  friend  Gay's  influence  and  approval. 
As  in  my  parliamentary  time,  when  a  man  had  a  motion  to 
make  of  any  sort — which  happened  seldom  in  those  days, 
for  we  were  kept  very  tight  in  hand,  the  leaders  on  both 
sides  being  regular  martinets,  which  was  a  devilish  good 
thing  for  the  rank  and  file,  like  myself,  and  prevented  our 
exposing  ourselves  continually,  as  a  great  many  of  us  had 
a  feverish  anxiety  to  do — as,  in  my  parliamentary  time,  I 
was  about  to  say,  when  a  man  had  leave  to  let  off  any  little 
private  popgun,  it  was  always  considered  a  great  point  for 
him  to  say  that  he  had  the  happiness  of  believing  that  his 
sentiments  were  not  without  an  echo  in  the  breast  of  Mr. 
Pitt ;  the  pilot,  in  point  of  fact,  who  had  weathered  the 
storm.  Upon  which,  a  develish  large  number  of  fellows 
immediately  cheered,  and  put  him  in  spirits.  Though  the 
fact  is,  that  these  fellows,  being  under  orders  to  cheer 
most  excessively  whenever  Mr.  Pitt's  name  was  mentioned, 
became  so  proficient  that  it  always  woke  'em.  And  they 
were  so  entirely  innocent  of  what  was  going  on,  otherwise, 
that  it  used  to  be  commonly  said  by  Conversation  Brown — 
four-bottle  man  at  the  treasury  board,  with  whom  the 
father  of  my  friend  Gay  was  probably  acquainted,  for  it  was 
before  by  friend  Gay's  time — that  if  a  man  had  risen  in  his 
place,  and  said  that  he  regretted  to  inform  the  house  that 
there  was  an  honorable  member  in  the  last  stage  of  con- 
vulsions in  the  lobby,  and  that  the  honorable  member's 
name  was  Pitt,  the  approbation  would  have  been  vocifer- 
ous." 

This  postponement  of  the  point  put  Florence  in  a  flutter  ; 
and  she  looked  from  Cousin  Feenix  to  Walter,  in  increas- 
ing agitation. 

"  My  love,"  said  Walter,  "  there  is  nothing  the  matter." 

"  There  is  nothing  the  matter,  upon  my  honor,"  said 
Cousin  Feenix  ;  "  and  I  am  deeply  distressed  at  being  the 
means  of  causing  you  a  moment's  uneasiness.  I  beg  to 
assure  you  that  there  is  nothing  the  matter.  The  favor  that 
I  have  to  ask  is,  simply — but  it  really  does  seem  so  exceed- 
ing singular,  that  I  should  be  in  the  last  degree  obliged 
to  my  friend  Gay  if  he  would  have  the  goodness  to  break 
the — in  point  of  fact,  the  ice,"  said  Cousin  Feenix. 

Walter  thus  appealed  to,  and  appealed  to  no  less  in  the 
look  that  Florence  turned  toward  him,  said  : 

''  My  dearest,  it  is  no  more  than  this.  That  you  will 
lide  to  London  with  this  gentleman,  whom  you  know." 


POMBEY   AND    SON.  857 

**  And   my    friend     Gay,    also — I    beg    your    pardon  1 
interrupted  Cousin  Feenix. 

"  And  with  me — and  make  a  visit  somewhere." 

**  To  whom  ?"  asked  Florence,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other. 

''  If  I  might  entreat,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  that  you 
would  not  press  for  an  answer  to  that  question,  I  would 
venture  to  take  the  liberty  of  making  the  request." 

"  Do  vou  know,  Walter  ^  "  said  Florence. 

"  Yes/' 

"  And  think  it  right  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Only  because  I  am  sure  that  you  would  too. 
Though  there  maybe  reasons  I  very  well  understand,  which 
make  it  better  that  nothing  more  should  be  said  before- 
hand." 

"  If  papa  is  still  asleep,  or  can  spare  me  if  he  is  awake, 
I  will  go  immediately,"  said  Florence.  And  rising  quietly, 
and  glancing  at  them  with  a  look  that  was  a  little  alarmed 
but  perfectly  confiding,  left  the  room. 

When  she  came  back,  ready  to  bear  them  company, 
they  were  talking  together,  gravely,  at  the  window  ;  and 
Florence  could  not  but  wonder  v\'hat  the  topic  was  that 
had  made  them  so  well  acquainted  in  so  short  a  time.  She 
did  not  wonder  at  the  look  of  pride  and  love  with  which  her 
husband  broke  off  as  she  entered  ;  for  she  never  saw  hin? 
but  that  rested  on  her. 

*'  I  will  leave,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  "  a  card  for  my  friend 
Dombey,  sincerely  trusting  that  he  will  pick  up  health  and 
strength  with  every  returning  hour.  And  I  hope  my  friend 
Dombev  will  do  me  the  favor  to  consider  me  a  man  who 
has  a  devilish  warm  admiration  of  his  character,  as,  in  point 
of  fact,  a  British  merchant  and  a  devilish  upright  gentle- 
man. My  place  in  the  country  is  in  a  most  confounded 
state  of  dilapidation,  but  if  my  friend  Dombey  should  re- 
quire a  change  of  air,  and  would  take  up  his  quarters  there, 
he  would  find  it  a  remarkably  healthy  spot — as  it  need  be, 
for  it's  amazingly  dull.  If  my  friend  Dombey  suffers  from 
bodily  weakness,  and  would  allow  me  to  recommend  what 
has  frequently  done  myself  good,  as  a  man  who  has  been 
extremely  queer  at  times,  and  who  has  lived  pretty  freely  in 
the  days  when  men  lived  very  freely,  I  should  say,  let  it  be  in 
point  of  fact  the  yolk  of  an  egg,  beat  up  with  sugar  and  nut- 
meg, in  a  glass  of  sherry^  and  taken  in  the  morning  with  a 
slice  of  dry  toast.     Jackson,  who  kept  the  boxing-rooms  in 


858  DOMBEY  AND    SON. 

Bond  Street — man  of  very  superior  qualifications,  with  whose 
reputation  my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted — used  to 
mention  that  in  training  for  the  ring  they  substituted  rum 
for  sherry.  I  should  recommend  sherry  in  this  case,  on 
account  of  my  friend  Dombey  being  in  an  invalided  con- 
dition ;  which  might  occasion  rum  to  fly — m  point  of  fact  to 
his  head — and  throw  him  into  a  devil  of  a  state." 

Of  all  this,  Cousin  Feenix  delivered  himself  with  an  obvi- 
ously nervous  and  discomposed  air.  Then,  giving  his  arm 
to  Florence,  and  putting  the  strongest  possible  constraint 
upon  his  willful  legs,  which  seemed  determined  to  go  out 
into  the  garden,  he  led  her  to  the  door,  and  handed  her  into 
a  carriage  that  was  ready  for  her  reception. 

Walter  entered  after  him  and  they  drove  away. 

Their  ride  was  six  or  eight  miles  long.  When  they  drove 
through  certain  dull  and  stately  streets,  lying  westward  in 
London,  it  was  growing  dusk.  Florence  had  by  this  time 
put  her  hand  in  Walter's  ;  and  was  looking  very  earnestly, 
and  with  increasing  agitation,  into  every  new  street  into 
which  they  turned. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  at  last,  before  that  house  in 
Brook  Street,  where  her  father's  unhappy  marriage  had  been 
celebrated,  Florence  said,  "  Walter,  what  is  this  ?  Who  is 
here  ?  "  Walter  cheering  her,  and  not  replying,  she  glanced 
up  at  the  house-front,  and  saw  that  all  the  windows  were 
shut,  as  if  it  were  uninhabited.  Cousin  Feenix  had  by  this 
time  alighted,  and  was  offering  his  hand. 

"  Are  you  not  coming,  Walter  ?" 

"  No,  I  will  remain  here.  Don't  tremble  !  there  is  noth- 
ing to  fear,  dearest  Florence." 

"I  know  that,  Walter,- with  you  so  near.  I  am  sure  of 
that,  but — " 

The  door  was  softly  opened,  without  any  knock,  and 
Cousin  Feenix  led  her  out  of  the  summer  evening  air  into 
the  close  dull  house.  More  somber  and  brown  than  ever,  it 
seemed  to  have  been  shut  up  from  the  wedding-day,  and  to 
have  hoarded  darkness  and  sadness  ever  since. 

Florence  ascended  the  dusky  staircase,  trembling,  and 
stopped,  with  her  conductor,  at  the  drawing-room  door.  He 
opened  it,  without  speaking,  and  signed  an  entreaty  to  her 
to  advance  into  the  inner  room,  while  he  remained  there. 
Florence,  after  hesitating  an  instant,  complied. 

Sitting  by  the  window  at  a  table,  where  she  seemed  to 
have  been  writing  or    drawing,   was    a    lady,  whose   head, 


DOMBEY   AND    SON.  859 

turned  away  toward  the  dying  light,  was  resting  on  her  hand. 
Florence  advancing,  doubtfully,  all  at  once  stood  still,  as  if 
she  had  lost  the  power  of  motion.  The  lady  turned  her 
head. 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  she  said,  "  what  is  this  ?  " 

*'  No,  no  !  "  cried  Florence,  shrinking  back  as  she  rose 
up,  and  putting  out  her  hands  to  keep  her  off.     *'  Mamma  !  " 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  Passion  and  pride  had 
worn  it,  but  it  was  the  face  of  Edith,  and  beautiful  and 
stately  yet.  It  was  the  face  of  Florence,  and  through  all  the 
terrified  avoidance  it  expressed,  there  was  pity  in  it,  sorrow,  a 
grateful  tender  memory.  On  each  face  wonder  and  fear 
were  painted  vividly  ;  each  so  still  and  silent,  looking  at  the 
other  over  the  black  gulf  of  the  irrevocable  past. 

Florence  was  the  first  to  change.  Bursting  into  tears, 
she  said,  from  her  full  heart,  "  Oh,  mamma,  mamma  !  why 
do  we  meet  like  this  ?  Why  were  you  ever  kind  to  me  when 
there  was  no  one  else,  that  we  should  meet  like  this  ? " 

Edith  stood  before  her,  dumb  and  motionless.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her  face. 

*'  I  dare  not  think  of  that,"  said  Florence  ;  "I  am  come 
from  papa's  sick-bed.  We  are  never  asunder  now  ;  we 
never  shall  be,  any  more.  If  you  would  have  me  ask  his 
pardon,  I  will  do  it,  mamma.  I  am  almost  sure  he  will  grant 
it  now,  if  I  ask  him.  May  heaven  grant  it  to  you,  too,  and 
comfort  you  !  " 

She  answered  not  a  word. 

^'  Walter — I  am  married  to  him,  and  we  have  a  son  *' — 
said  Florence,  timidly,  ''  is  at  the  door,  and  has  brought  me 
here.  I  will  tell  him  that  you  are  repentant  ;  that  you  are 
changed,"  said  Florence,  looking  mournfully  upon  her  ; 
''  and  he  will  speak  to  papa  with  me,  I  know.  Is  there  any 
thing  but  this  that  I  can  do  ?  " 

Edith,  breaking  her  silence,  without  moving  eye  or  limb, 
answered  slowly  : 

"  The  stain  upon  your  name,  upon  your  husband's,  on 
your  child's.     Will  that  ever  be  forgiven,  Florence  ?  " 

"  Will  it  ever  be,  mamma  ?  It  is  !  Freely,  freely,  both  by 
Walter  and  by  me.  If  that  is  any  consolation  to  you,  there 
is  nothing  that  you  may  believe  more  certainly.  You  do  not 
— you  do  not,"  faltered  Florence,  ''  speak  of  papa  ;  but  I  am 
sure  you  wish  that  I  should  ask  him  for  his  forgiveness.  I 
am  sure  you  do." 

She  answered  not  a  word. 


860  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

"  I  will  !  "  said  Florence.  "  I  will  bring  it  you,  if  you 
will  let  me  ;  and  then,  perhaps,  we  may  take  leave  of  each 
other,  more  like  what  we  used  to  be  to  one  another.  I  have 
not,"  said  Florence  very  gently,  and  drawing  nearer  to  her, 
*'  I  have  not  shrunk  back  from  you,  mamma,  because  I  fear 
you,  or  because  I  dread  to  be  disgraced  by  you.  I  only  wish 
to  do  my  duty  to  papa.  I  am  very  dear  to  him,  and  he  is 
very  dear  to  me.  But  I  never  can  forget  that  you  were  very 
good  to  me.  Oh,  pray  to  heaven,"  cried  Florence,  falling 
on-  her  bosom,  "  pray  to  heaven,  mamma,  to  forgive  you  all 
this  sin  and  shame,  and  to  forgive  me  if  I  can  not  help  doing 
this  (if  it  is  wrong),  when  I  remember  what  you  used  to  be  !  " 

Edith,  as  if  she  fell  beneath  her  touch,  sunk  down  on  her 
knees,  and  caught  her  round  the  neck. 

"  Florence  !  "  she  cried.  "  My  better  angel  !  Before  I 
am  mad  again,  before  my  stubbornness  comes  back  and 
strikes  me  dumb,  believe  me,  upon  my  soul  I  am  innocent." 

''  Mamma  ! 

"  Guilty  of  much  !  Guilty  of  that  which  sets  a  waste 
between  us  evermore.  Guilty  of  what  must  separate  me, 
through  the  whole  remainder  of  my  life,  from  purity  and  inno- 
cence— from  you,  of  all  the  earth.  Guilty  of  a  blind  and  pas- 
sionate resentment,  of  which  I  do  not,  can  not,  will  not,  even 
now  repent;  but  not  guilty  with  that  dead  man.  Before  God  !" 

Upon  her  knees  upon  the  ground,  she  held  up  both  her 
hands,  and  swore  it. 

''Florence  !"  she  said,  "  purest  and  best  of  natures--whom 
I  love — who  might  have  changed  me  long  ago,  and  did  for  a 
time  work  some  change  even  in  the  woman  that  I  am — 
believe  me,  I  am  innocent  of  that ;  and  once  more,  on  my 
desolate  heart,  let  me  lay  this  dear  head,  for  the  last  time  !" 

She  was  moved  and  weeping.  Had  she  been  oftener  thus 
in  older  days,  she  had  been  happier  now. 

"  There  is  nothing  else  in  all  the  world,"  she  said,  "that 
would  have  wrung  denial  from  me.  No  love,  no  hatred,  no 
hope,  no  threat.  I  said  that  I  would  die,  and  make  no 
sign.  I  could  have  done  so,  and  I  would,  if  we  had  never 
met,  Florence." 

"  I  trust,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  ambHng  in  at  the  door,  and 
speaking,  half  in  the  room  and  half  out  of  it,  ''that  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  will  excuse  my  having,  by  a  little 
stratagem,  effected  this  meeting.  I  can  not  say  that  I  was, 
at  first,  wholly  incredulous  as  to  the  possibility  of  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  having,  very  unfortunately,  com> 


DOMBEY    AND   SON.  86i 

mitted  herself  with  the  deceased  person  with  white  teeth  ; 
because,  in  point  of  fact,  one  does  see  in  this  world — which 
is  remarkable  for  devilish  strange  arrangements,  and  for 
being  decidedly  the  most  unintelligible  thing  within  a  man's 
experience — very  odd  conjunctions  of  that  sort.  But  as  I 
mentioned  to  my  friend  Dombey,  I  could  not  admit  the 
criminality  of  my  lovely  and  accomplished  relative  until  it 
was  perfectly  established.  And  feeling,  when  the  deceased 
person  was,  in  point  of  fact,  destroyed  in  a  devilish,  horrible 
manner,that  her  position  was  a  very  painful  one — and  feeling, 
besides,  that  our  family  had  been  a  little  to  blame  in  not 
paying  more  attention  to  her,  and  that  we  are  a  careless 
family — and  also  that  my  aunt,  though  a  devilish  lively 
w^oman,  had  perhaps  not  been  the  very  best  of  mothers — I 
took  the  liberty  of  seeking  her  in  France,  and  offering  her 
such  protection  as  a  man  very  much  out  at  elbows  could 
offer.  Upon  which  occasion,  my  lovely  and  accomplished 
relative  did  me  the  honor  to  express  that  she  believed  I  vras, 
in  my  way,  a  devilish  good  sort  of  a  fellow;  and  that  therefore 
ihe  put  herself  under  my  protection.  Which,  in  point  of 
fact,  I  understood  to  be  a  kind  thing  on  the  part  of  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative,  as  I  am  getting  extremely 
shaky,  and  have  derived  great  comfort  from  her  solicitude." 

Edith,  who  had  taken  Florence  to  a  sofa,  made  a  gesture 
with  her  hand  as  if  she  would  have  begged  him  to  say  no 
more. 

*'  My  lovely  and  accomplished  relative,"  resumed  Cousin 
Feenix,  still  ambling  about  at  the  door,  "  will  excuse  me,  if, 
for  her  satisfaction,  and  my  own,  and  that  of  my  friend 
Dombey,  whose  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter  we  so 
much  admire,  I  complete  the  thread  of  my  observations. 
She  will  remember  that,  from  the  first,  she  and  I  have  never 
alluded  to  the  subject  of  her  elopement.  My  impression, 
certainly,  has  always  been,  that  there  was  a  miystery  in  the 
affair  which  she  could  explain  if  so  inclined.  But  my  lovely 
and  accomplished  relative  being  a  devilish  resolute  woman, 
I  knew  that  she  was  not,  in  point  of  fact,  to  be  trifled  with, 
and  therefore  did  not  involve  myself  in  any  discussions. 
But  observing,  lately,  that  her  accessible  point  did  appear 
to  be  a  very  strong  description  of  tenderness  for  the  daugh- 
ter of  my  friend  Dombey,  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  couid 
bring  about  a  meeting,  unexpected  on  both  sides,  it  might 
lead  to  beneficial  results.  Therefore,  we  being  in  London. 
in   the   present   private  way,    before  going  to  the  south  of 


862  DOMBEY    AND    SON. 

Italy,  there  to  establish  ourselves,  in  point  of  fact,  until  we 
go  to  our  long  homes,  which  is  a  devilish  disagreeable 
reflection  for  a  man,  I  applied  myself  to  the  discovery  of  the 
residence  of  my  friend  Gay — handsome  man  of  an  uncom- 
monly frank  disposition,  who  is  probably  known  to  my 
lovely  and  accomplished  relative — and  had  the  happiness  of 
bringing  his  amiable  wife  to  the  present  place.  And  now," 
said  Cousin  Feenix,  with  a  real  and  genuine  earnestness 
shining  through  the  levity  of  his  manner  and  his  slipshod 
speech,  '^  I  do  conjure  my  relative  not  to  stop  half  way,  but 
to  set  right,  as  far  as  she  can,  whatever  she  has  done 
wrong — not  for  the  honor  of  her  family,  not  for  her  own 
fame,  not  for  any  of  those  considerations  which  unfortunate 
circumstances  have  induced  her  to  regard  as  hollow,  and,  in 
point  of  fact,  as  approaching  to  humbug — but  because  it  is 
wrong,  and  not  right." 

Cousin  Feenix's  legs  consented  to  take  him  away  after 
this  ;  and  leaving  them  alone  together,  he  shut  the  door. 

Edith  remained  silent  for  some  minutes,  with  Florence 
sitting  close  beside  her.  Then  she  took  from  her  bosom  a 
sealed  paper. 

''  I  debated  with  myself  a  long  time,"  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  ''  whether  to  write  this  at  all,  in  case  of  dying  suddenly 
or  by  accident,  and  feeling  the  want  of  it  upon  me.  x  have 
deliberated,  ever  since,  when  and  how  to  destroy  it.  Take 
it,  Florence.     The  truth  is  written  in  it." 

"  Is  it  for  papa  ?"  asked  Florence. 

''  It  is  for  whom  you  will,"  she  answered.  "  It  is  given  to 
you,  and  is  obtained  by  you.  He  never  could  have  had  in 
otherwise." 

Again  they  sat  silent,  in  the  deepening  darkness. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Florence,  *'he  has  lost  his  fortune;  he  has 
been  at  the  point  of  death,  he  may  not  recover,  even  now.  Is 
there  any  word  that  I  shall  say  to  him  from  you?" 

"  Did  you  tell  me,"  asked  Edith,  "that  you  were  very  dear 
to  him  ? " 

"Yes!  "  said  Florence,  in  a  thrilling  voice. 

"  Tell  him  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever  met." 

"  No  more  ?"  said  Florence,  after  a  pause. 

"  Tell  him,  if  he  asks,  that  I  do  not  repent  of  what  I  have 
done — not  yet — for  if  it  were  to  do  again  to-morrow,  I 
should  do  it.     But  if  he  is  a  changed  man — " 

She  stopped.  There  was  something  in  the  silent  touch  of 
Florence's  hand  that  stopped  her. 


DOMBEY    AND    SON.  863 

" — But  that  being  a  changed  man,  he  knows  now  it  would 
never  be.     Tell  him  I  wish  it  never  had  been." 

"  May  I  say,"  said  Florence,  ''  that  you  grieved  to  hear  of 
the  afflictions  he  has  suffered  ?  " 

"  Not,"  she  replied,  ''if  they  have  taught  him  that  his 
daughter  is  very  dear  to  him.  He  will  not  grieve  for  them 
himself,  one  day,  if  they  have  brought  that  lesson,  Florence." 

"  You  wish  well  to  him,  and  vrould  have  him  happy.  I 
am  sure  you  would  !  "  said  Florence.  "  Oh  I  let  me  be 
able,  if  I  have  the  occasion  at  some  future  time,  to  say  so  I  " 

Edith  sat  with  her  dark  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  before 
her,  and  did  not  reply  until  Florence  had  repeated  her 
entreaty  ;  when  she  drew  her  hand  within  her  arm,  and 
said,  with  the  same  thoughtful  gaze  upon  the  night  outside  : 

"•Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can  find  any 
reason  to  compassionate  my  past,  I  sent  word  that  I  asked 
him  to  do  so.  Tell  him  that  if,  in  his  own  present,  he  can 
find  a  reason  to  think  less  bitterly  of  me,  I  asked  him  to  do 
so.  Tell  him  that,  dead  as  we  are  to  one  another,  never 
more  to  meet  on  this  side  of  eternity,  he  knows  there  is  one 
feeling  in  common  between  us  now,  that  there  never  was 
before." 

Her  sternness  seemed  to  yield,  and  there  were  tears  in 
her  dark  eyes. 

"  I  trust  myself  to  that.'  she  said,  ''for  his  better  thoughts 
of  me,  and  mine  of  him.  When  he  loves  his  Florence  most, 
he  will  hate  me  least.  When  he  is  most  proud  and  happy 
in  her  and  her  children,  he  will  be  most  repentant  of  his  own 
part  in  the  dark  vision  of  our  married  life.  At  that  time,  I 
will  be  repentant  too — let  him  know  it  then — and  think  that 
when  I  thought  so  much  of  all  the  causes  that  had  made 
me  what  I  was,  I  needed  to  have  allowed  more  for  the 
causes  that  had  made  him  what  he  was.  I  will  try,  then,  to 
forgive  him  his  share  of  blame.  Let  him  try  to  forgive  me 
mme  ! 

"  Oh  mamma  !  "  said  Florence.  "  How  it  lightens  my 
heart,  even  in  such  a  meeting  and  parting,  to  hear  this  !  " 

"  Strange  words  in  my  own  ears,"  said  Edith.  "  and  for- 
eign to  the  sound  of  my  own  voice  !  But  even  if  I  had  been 
the  wretched  creature  I  have  given  him  occasion  to  believe  me, 
I  think  I  could  have  said  them  still,  hearing  that  you  and  he 
were  very  dear  to  one  another.  Let  him,  when  you  are  dear- 
est, ever  feel  that  he  is  most  forbearing  in  his  thoughts  of 
me — that  I   am  most  forbearing    in    my  thoughts  of  him  ! 


864  DOMBEY   AND    SON. 

Those  are  the  last  words  I  send  him  !  Now,  good-by,  my 
life  !  " 

She  clasped  her  in  her  arms,  and  seemed  to  pour  out  all 
her  woman's  soul  of  love  and  tenderness  at  once. 

'*  This  kiss  for  your  child  !  These  kisses  for  a  blessing  on 
your  head  !   My  own  dear  Florence,  my  sweet  girl,  farewell  !  " 

"  To  meet  again  !  "  cried  Florence. 

"  Never  again  !  Never  again  !  When  you  leave  me  in  this 
dark  room,  think  that  you  have  left  me  in  the  grave. 
Remember  only  that  I  was  once,  and  that  I  loved  you  !  " 

And  Florence  left  her,  seeing  her  face  no  more,  but 
accompanied  by  her  embraces  and  caresses  to  the  last. 

Cousin  Feenix  met  her  at  the  door,  and  took  her  down  to 
Walter  in  the  dingy  dining-room  ;  upon  whose  shoulder  she 
laid  her  head,  weeping. 

^*  I  am  devilish  sorry,"  said  Cousin  Feenix,  lifting  his 
wristbands  to  his  eyes  in  the  simplest  manner  possible,  and 
without  the  least  concealment,  ''  that  the  lovely  and  accom- 
plished daughter  of  my  friend  Dombey  and  amiable  wife  of 
my  friend  Gay  should  have  had  her  sensitive  nature  so  very 
much  distressed  and  cut  up  by  the  interview  which  is  just 
concluded.  But  I  hope  and  trust  I  have  acted  for  the  best, 
and  that«?my  honorable  friend  Dombey  will  find  his  mind 
relieved  by  the  disclosures  which  have  taken  place.  I 
exceedingly  lament  that  my  friend  Dombey  should  have  got 
himself,  in  point  of  fact,  into  the  devil's  own  state  of  con- 
glomeration by  an  alliance  with  our  family  ;  but  am  strongly 
of  opinion  that  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  infernal  scoundrel 
Carter — man  with  white  teeth — every  thing  would  have  gone 
on  pretty  smoothly.  In  regard  to  my  relative,  who  does  me 
the  honor  to  have  formed  an  uncommonly  good  opinion  of 
myself,  I  can  assure  the  amiable  wife  of  my  friend  Gay  that 
she  may  rely  on  my  being,  in  point  of  fact,  a  father  to  her. 
And  in  regard  to  the  changes  of  human  life,  and  the  extra- 
ordinary manner  in  which  we  are  perpetually  conducting 
ourselves,  all  I  can  say  is,  with  my  friend  Shakespeare — 
man  who  wasn't  for  an  age  but  for  all  time,  and  with  whom 
my  friend  Gay  is  no  doubt  acquainted— that  it's  like  the 
shadow  of  a  dream." 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  865 

CHAPTER  LXII. 

FINAL, 

A  bottle  that  has  been  long  excluded  from  the  light   of 
day,  and  is  hoary  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  has  been  brought 
into  the  sunshine;  and  the  golden  wine  within  it  sheds  a  lus 
ter  on  the  table. 
"  It  is  the  last  bottle  of  the  old  Madeira. 

"You  are  quite  right,  Mr.  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Dombey. 
"This  is  a  very  rare  and  most  delicious  wine." 

The  captain,  who  is  of  the  party,  beams  with  joy.  There 
is  a  very  halo  of  delight  round  his  glowing  forehead. 

"We  always  promised  ourselves,  sir,"  observes  Mr.  Gills, 
"  Ned  and  myself,  I  mean — " 

Mr.  Dombey  nods  at  the  captain,  who  shines  more  and 
more  with  speechless  gratification. 

" — that  we  would  drink  this,  one  day  or  another  safe  at 
home;  though  such  a  home  we  never  thought  of.  If  you 
don't  object  to  our  old  whim,  sir,  let  us  devote  this  first 
glass  to  Walter  and  his  wife." 

"  To  Walter  and  his  wife!  "  says  Mr.  Dombey.  "  Florence, 
my  child  " — and  turns  to  kiss  her. 

"To  Walter  and  his  wife!  "  says  Mr.  Toots. 

"  To  Wal'r  and  his  wife! "  exclaims  the  captain. 
"  Hooroar!  "  and  the  captain  exhibiting  a  strong  desire  to 
clink  his  glass  against  some  other  glass,  Mr.  Dombey,  with  a 
ready  hand,  holds  out  his.  The  others  follow;  and  there  is 
a  blithe  and  merry  ringing,  as  of  a  little  peal  of  marriage 
bells. 

Other  buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did  in 
its  time;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Mr.  Dombey  is  a  white-haired  gentleman,  whose  face  bears 
heavy  marks  of  care  and  suffering;  but  they  are  traces  of  a 
storm  that  has  passed  on  forever,  and  left  a  clear  evening  in 
its  track. 

Ambitious  projects  trouble  him  no  more.  His  only  pride 
is  in  his  daughter  and  her  husband.  He  has  a  silent, 
thoughtful,  quiet  manner,  and  is  always  with  his  daughter. 
Miss  Tox  is  not  unfrequently  of  the  family  party  and  is  quite 
devoted  to  it,  and  a  great  favorite.  Her  admiration  of  her 
once  stately  patron  is,  and  has  been  ever  since  the  morning 


us  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

of  her  shock  in  Princess's  Place,  platonic,  but  not  weakened 
in  the  least. 

Nothing  has  drifted  to  him  from  the  wreck  of  his  fortunes, 
but  a  certain  annual  sum  that  comes  he  knows  not  how,  with 
an  earnest  entreaty  that  he  will  not  seek  to  discover,  and 
with  the  assurance  that  it  is  a  debt,  and  an  act  of  reparation. 
He  has  consulted  with  his  old  clerk  about  this,  v/ho  is  clear 
it  may  be  honorably  accepted,  and  has  no  doubt  it  arises  out 
of  some  forgotten  transaction  in  the  times  of  the  old  house. 

That  hazel-eyed  bachelor,  a  bachelor  no  more,  is  married 
now,  and  to  the  sister  of  the  gray-haired  junior.  He  visits 
his  old  chief  sometimes,  but  seldom.  There  is  a  reason  in 
the  gray-haired  junior's  history,  and  yet  a  stronger  reason  in 
his  name,  why  he  should  keep  retired  from  his  old  employer; 
and  as  he  lives  with  his  sister  and  her  husband,  they  partici- 
pate in  that  retirement.  Walter  sees  them  sometimes — 
Florence  too — and  the  pleasant  house  resounds  with  pro- 
found duets  arranged  for  the  piano-forte  and  violoncello, 
and  with  the  labors  of  harmonious  blacksmiths. 

And  how  goes  the  wooden  midshipman  in  these  changed 
days  ?  Why,  here  he  still  is,  right  leg  foremost,  hard  at 
work  upon  the  hackney-coaches,  and  more  on  the  alert  than 
ever,  being  newly  painted  from  his  cocked  hat  to  his  buckled 
shoes  ;  and  up  above  him,  in  golden  characters,  these  names 
shine  refulgent.  Gills  and  Cuttle. 

Not  another  stroke  of  business  does  the  midshipman 
achieve  beyond  his  usual  easy  trade.  But  they  do  say,  in  a 
circuit  of  some  half-mile  round  the  blue  umbrella  in  Leaden- 
hall  Market,  tliat  some  of  Mr.  Gills's  old  investments  are  com- 
ing out  wonderfully  well;  and  that  instead  of  being  behind  the 
time  in  those  respects,  as  he  supposed,  he  was,  in  truth,  a  little 
before  it,  and  had  to  wait  the  fullness  of  the  time  and  the 
design.  The  whisper  is  that  Mr.  Gills's  money  has  begun  to 
turn  itse^/,  and  that  it  is  turning  itself  over  and  over  pretty 
briskly.  Certain  it  is  that,  standing  at  his  shop-door,  in  his 
coffee-colored  suit,  with  his  chronometer  in  his  pocket,  and 
his  spectacles  on  his  forehead,  he  don't  appear  to  break  his 
heart  at  customers  not  coming,  but  looks  very  jovial  and 
contented,  though  full  as  misty  as  of  yore. 

As  to  his  partner.  Captain  Cuttle,  there  is  a  fiction  of  a 
business  in  the  captain's  mind  which  is  better  than  any 
reality.  The  captain  is  as  satisfied  of  the  midshipman's  im- 
portance to  the  commerce  and  navigation  of  the  country  as 
he  could  possibly  be  if  no  ship  left  the  port  of  London  with- 


DOMBEY   AND   SON.  867 

out  the  midshipman's  assistance.  His  delight  in  his  own 
name  over  the  door  is  inexhaustible.  He  crosses  the  street 
twenty  times  a  day,  to  look  at  it  from  the  other  side  of  the 
way;  and  invariable  says,  on  these  occasions,  "  Ed'ard  Cut- 
tle, my  lad,  if  your  mother  ha'  know'd  as  you  would  ever  be 
a  man  o'  science,  the  good  old  creetur  would  ha'  been  took 
aback  indeed  !  " 

But  here  is  Mr.  Toots  descending  on  the  midshipman  with 
violent  rapidity,  and  Mr.  Toots's  face  is  very  red  as  he  bursts 
into  the  little  parlor. 

"  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  Mr.  Sols,  I  am 
happy  to  inform  you  that  Mrs.  Toots  had  has  an  increase  to 
her  family." 

"  And  it  does  her  credit  !  "  cries  the  captain. 

"  I  give  you  joy,  Mr  Toots  !  "  says  old  Sol. 

"  Thankee,"  chuckles  Mr.  Toots,  **  I'm  very  much  obliged 
to  you.  I  knew  that  you'd  be  glad  to  hear,  and  so  I  came 
down  myself.  We're  positively  getting  on,  you  know. 
There's  Florence  and  Susan,  and  now  here's  another  little 
stranger." 

**  A  female  stranger  ?"  inquires  the  captain. 

"  Yes,  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "  and  I'm  glad  of 
it.  The  oftener  we  can  repeat  that  most  extraordinary 
woman,  my  opinion  is,  the  better  !  " 

"  Stand  by  !  "  says  the  captain,  turning  to  the  old  case- 
bottle  with  no  throat — for  it  is  evening,  and  the  midshipman's 
usual  moderate  provision  of  pipes  and  glasses  is  on  the  board. 
"  Here's  to  her,  and  may  she  have  ever  so  many  more  ! " 

"  Thankee,  Captain  Gillis,"  says  the  delighted  Mr.  Toots, 
**  I  echo  the  sentiment.  If  you'll  allow  me,  as  my  so  doing 
can  not  be  unpleasant  to  any  body,  under  the  circumstances 
I  think  I'll  take  a  pipe." 

Mr.  Toots  begins  to  smoke,  accordingly,  and  in  the 
openness  of  his  heart  is  very  loquacious. 

*'  Of  all  the  remarkable  instances  that  that  delightful 
woman  has  given  of  her  excellent  sense.  Captain  Gills  and 
Mr.  Sols,"  says  Toots,  "  I  think  none  is  more  remark- 
ajble  than  the  perfection  with  which  she  has  understood 
my  devotion  to  Miss  Dombey." 

Both  his  auditors  assent. 

"Because  you  know,"  says  Mr.  Toots,  "/  have  never 
changed  my  sentiments  toward  Miss  Dombey.  They  are 
the  same  as  ever.  She  is  the  same  bright  vision  to  me  at 
present  that  she  was  before  I  made  Walter's  acquaintance. 


868  DOMBEY   AND   SON. 

When  Mrs.  Toots  and  myself  first  began  to  talk  of — in 
short,  of  the  tender  passion,  you  know,  Captain  Gills." 

'*  Ay,  ay,  my  lad,"  says  the  captain,  "  as  makes  us  all 
slue  round — for  which  you'll  overhaul  the  book — " 

"  I  shall  certainly  do  so.  Captain  Gills,"  says  Mr.  Toots, 
with  great  earnestness  ;  "  when  we  first  began  to  mention 
such  subjects,  I  explained  that  I  was  what  you  may  call  a 
blighted  flower,  you  know." 

The  captain  approves  of  the  figure  greatly  ;  and  mur- 
murs  that  no  flower  as  blows  is  like  the  rose. 

"  But  Lord  bless  me,"  pursues  Mr.  Toots,  "  she  was 
as  entirely  conscious  of  the  state  of  my  feelings  as 
I  was  myself.  There  was  nothing  I  could  tell  hei'. 
She  was  the  only  person  who  could  have  stood  between 
me  and  the  silent  tomb,  and  she  did  it  in  a  manner 
to  command  my  everlasting  admiration.  She  knows  that 
there's  nobody  in  the  world  I  look  up  to  as  I  do  to  Miss 
Dombey.  She  knows  that  there's  nothing  on  earth  I  wouldn't 
do  for  Miss  Dombey.  She  knows  that  I  consider  Miss 
Dombey  the  most  beautiful,  the  most  amiable,  the  most 
angelic  of  her  sex.  What  is  her  observation  upon  that? 
The  perfection  of  sense.  *  My  dear,  you're  right.  /  think  so 
too.'  " 

"  And  so  do  I  !  "  says  the  captain. 

''So  do  I,"  says  Sol  Gills. 

"  Then,"  resumes  Mr.  Toots,  after  some  contemplative 
pulling  at  his  pipe,  during  which  his  visage  has  expressed 
the  most  contented  reflection,  "  what  an  observant  woman 
my  wife  is  !  What  sagacity  she  possesses  !  What  remarks 
she  makes  !  It  was  only  last  night,  when  we  were  sitting  in 
the  enjoyment  of  connubial  bliss — which,  upon  my  word  and 
honor,  is  a  feeble  term  to  express  my  feelings  in  the  society 
of  my  wife — that  she  said  how  remarkable  it  was  to  consider 
the  present  position  of  our  friend  Walters.  '  Here,' 
observes  my  wife,  *  he  is,  released  from  sea-going,  after  that 
first  long  voyage  with  his  young  bride  ' — as  you  know  he 
was,  Mr.  Sols." 

"  Quite  true,"  says  the  old-instrument  maker,  rubbing  his 
hands. 

"  '  Here  he  is,'  says  my  wife,  '  released  from  that,  immedi- 
ately ;  appointed  by  the  same  establishment  to  a  post  of 
great  trust  and  confidence  at  home  ;  showing  himself  again 
worthy  ;  mounting  up  the  ladder  with  the  greatest  expedi- 
tion; beloved  by  every  body;  assisted  by  his  uncle  at  the 


CAl'TAIN    CUTTLE   GIVES    THEM    THE   LO\ELy  .PBiQ.^ 


•     •    < 
•  •      • 


•  « 


»»**.- 


DOMBEY  AND  SON.  S69 

best  possible  time  of  his  fortunes' — which  I  think  is  the  case, 
Mr.  Sols  ?     My  wife  is  always  correct." 

"  Why  yes,  yes — some  of  our  lost  ships,  freighted  with 
gold,  have  come  home,  truly,"  returns  old  Sol,  laughing. 
"  Small  craft,    Mr.   Toots,  but  serviceable  to  my  boy  !  " 

"  Exactly  so,"  says  Mr.Toots.  "  You'll  never  find  my  wife 
wrong.  *  Here  he  is,'  says  that  most  remarkable  woman/  so 
situated — and  what  follows  ?  What  follows  ?  '  observed  Mrs. 
Toots.  Now  pray  remark,  Captain  Gills,  and  Mr.  Sols,  the 
depth  of  my  wife's  penetration.  '  Why  that,  under  the  very 
eye  of  Mr.  Uombey,  there  is  a  foundation  going  on,  upon 
which  a — an  edifice  ; '  that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word,"  says  Mr. 
Toots,  exultingly,  *' '  is  gradually  rising,  perhaps  to  equal, 
perhaps  excel,  that  of  which  he  was  once  the  head,  and  the 
small  beginnings  of  which  (a  common  fault,  but  a  bad  one, 
Mrs.  Toots  said)  escaped  his  memory.     Thus,'  said  my  wife, 

*  from  his  daughter,  after  all,  another  Dombey  and  Son  will 
ascend' — no,  '  rise  '  ;  that  was  Mrs.  Toots's  word — '  trium- 
phant'." 

Mr.  Toots,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pipe — which  he  is 
extremely  glad  to  devote  to  oratorical  purposes,  as  its  proper 
use  affects  him  with  a  very  uncomfortable  sensation — does 
such  grand  justice  to  this  prophetic  sentence  of  his  wife's 
that  the  captain,  throwing  away  his  glazed  hat  in  a  state 
of  the  greatest  excitement,  cries  : 

**  Sol  Gills,  you  man  of  science  and  my  ould  pardner, 
what  did  I  tell  Wal'r  to  overhaul  on  that  there  night  when 
he  first    took    to    business?     Was   it   this  here    quotation, 

*  Turn  again  Whittington  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  and 
when  you  are  old  you  will  never  depart  from  it  ? '  Was  it 
them  words,  Sol  Gills  ?  " 

*'  It  certainly  was,  Ned,"  replied  the  old  instrument- 
maker.     "  I  remember  well." 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what,"  says  the  captain,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  and  composing  his  chest  for  a  prodigious  roar 
"  I'll  give  you  Lovely  Peg  right  through;  and  stand  by,  both 
on  you,  for  the  chorus  !  " 

Buried  wine  grows  older,  as  the  old  Madeira  did  in  its 
time  ;  and  dust  and  cobwebs  thicken  on  the  bottles. 

Autumn  days  are  shining,  and  on  the  sea-beach  there  are 
often  a  young  lady  and  a  white-haired  gentleman.  With 
them,  or  near  them,  are  two  children — boy  and  girl.  And 
an  old  dog  is  generally  in  their  company. 


870  DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

The  white-haired  gentleman  walks  with  the  little  boy,  talks 
with  him,  helps  him  in  his  play,  attends  upon  him,  watches 
him  as  if  he  were  the  object  of  his  life.  If  he  be  thoughtful, 
the  white-haired  gentleman  is  thoughtful  too  ;  and  some- 
times when  the  child  is  sitting  by  his  side,  and  looks  up  in  his 
face,  asking  him  questions,  he  takes  the  tiny  hand  in  his,  and 
holding  it,  forgets  to  answer.     Then  the  child  says  : 

"  What,  grandpapa  !  Am  I  so  like  my  poor  little  uncle 
again  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  Paul.  But  he  was  weak,  and  you  are  very 
strong." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am  very  strong." 

"  And  he  lay  on  a  little  bed  beside  the  sea,  and  you  can 
run  about." 

And  so  they  range  away  again,  busily,  for  the  white- 
haired  gentleman  likes  best  to  see  the  child  free  and  stirring; 
and  as  they  go  about  together,  the  story  of  the  bond  between 
them  goes  about,  and  follows  them. 

But  no  one,  except  Florence,  knows  the  measure  of  the 
white-haired  gentleman's  affection  for  the  girl.  That  story 
never  goes  about.  The  child  herself  almost  wonders  at  a 
certain  secrecy  he  keeps  in  it.  He  hoards  her  in  his  heart. 
He  can  not  bear  to  see  a  cloud  upon  her  face.  He  can  not 
bear  to  see  her  sit  apart.  He  fancies  that  she  feels  a  slight, 
when  there  is  none.  He  steals  away  to  look  at  her,  in  her 
sleep.  It  pleases  him  to  have  her  come  and  wake  him  in 
the  morning.  He  is  fondest  of  her  and  most  loving  to  her, 
when  there  is  no  creature  by.  The  child  says  then  some- 
times ' 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  why  do  you  cry  when  you  kiss  me  ?  " 

He  only  answers,  "  Little  Florence  !  Little  Florence  !  *' 
and  smooths  away  the  curls  that  shade  her  earnest  eye. 


THE  "Kin), 


%a^ 

i;-?^-"!?^ 


^-i^'^i^' 


UNIVERSlTy  OF  CALIPORNIA  LIBJL.Ry 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
Th«  book.  DUE  on  .he  la.  date  stamped  below. 


^gNovD 
l9F8b52LL 


2Sep'60J6 
REC'D  L.U 

SEP" 


REC'D  LD       APR  15  1967  7  4 

IAUG19  196?       F-'-        -^ 

IN  20  'b/  -4 


TOOd'QSut 


REC'D  LD 

FEB  24 '66 -5 


A' 


t    / 


<* 


^ 


b'^^ 


R 


-fVED 


AUG  1 9  mi 


r 


CO    c 
G  -ci 


'D  21-100m-9,'48(B399sl6kl©AN    DEPT,  T  '^  ^  "i^    PM  g 


/ 


Ml9^^^^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


V       'M£>^3Sg&X>J 


